IS  MAN  FREE  ONLY 
WHEN  CORRUPT? 


BY 


PEATTIE. 
CANNAN    is,     per- 
;ext  to  George  Moore, 
st    emancipated    man 
wri'ling.     More  emanci- 
pated   than'    Shaw    or    than 
Wells.      They    are,    all    four     of     them, 
unbroken    stallions     plunging    about    a 
copious  paddock,  but  Cannan  and  Moore 
are     the     worst     of     the     lot,     though 
no  more  talented  than  the  others.     Of 
course,  Shaw  isn't  sure  \vhat  he  means, 
and  Wells  has  only  recently  found  con- 
viction, while  Moore  always  knows  what 
ho  means,  and  Cannan  is  at  least  sure 
of  many  things  which  he  does  not  mean. 
•:iy,    he   does'  not   mean   ever   to  ad- 
limits,  bounds,  proprieties,  conven- 
,    or    traditional    virtues.      He   feels 
liberal    toward    the    sins.      He    forgives 
ything    except    the    arranged,      the 
sterilized,  and  the  expected. 

Read  "  MENDEL  "  and  you  will  see 
what  I  mean.  {George  H.  Doran,  N.  Y..) 
Mendel  is  the  hero.  He  is  an  Austrian 
Jew  who  is  reared  in  the  London  slums, 
and  he  can  paint  like  a  demon.  That  is 
:y,  he  can  almost  paint  like  Cezanne. 
But  it  is  many  years  before  he  gets  to 
Cezanne.  He  comes  up  through  bitter 
poverty  to  the  art  schools,  through  the 
art  schools  to  his  own  methods,  through 
lils  own  methods  to  stand  spellbound 
before  the  face  with  the  crooked  mouth 
which  Cezanne  said  was  that  of  his  wife, 
unhappy  man  that  he  was  to  have  to 
own  it! 

Mendel  admits  that  he  has  a  dingy 
eoul,  and  the  reader  regards  the  epithet 
as  mild.  The  .truth  is,  Mendel  adores 
which,  however,  does  not  prevent 
him  from/  loving  beauty  any  more  than 
zest  for  sin  kept  Villon  or  Verlaine,  By- 
ron or  Wilde,  from  loving  exquisiteness. 
Ghetto  did  not  offend  Mendel.  He 
liked  the  smells  and  the  reek  of  his  own 
people,  was  contented  when  surrounded 
with  their  solemnity,  their  observances, 
ir  fanaticism.  Not  that  these 
.  hings  affected  his  conduct.  He  had  as 
many  women  as  Jean  Christophe,  but 
.Cannan  seems  to  think  a  pure  and  high 
minded  girl  mighty  lucky  when  at  last 
she  got  Mendel  for  an  accepted  husband. 


The  girl  regarded  herself  as  blessed 
among  women,  though  she  had  been  told 
yLhing  about  Mendel's  life— which 
telling  took  a  long  time  and  immense 
candor.  But  why  Cannan  should  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  make  this  woman 
pure  and  to  keep  her  steadfast  cannot 
quite  be  imagined.  Why  this  clinging 
+o  'i^rown  supe  Why  this 

to    a    "*"  ejudice? 

t  'ated, 

-nit- 
re 
:h 
m 


tre- 
e   of 
.•wish 
id   to 
who 
i    his 

.    .v.alth    of 
>med    verit- 
power.    Lo- 
and  his  av^d 
i.n  aer  caresses; 


r/ond  li 
upon    hei 
_,    his   semi-n 
::il    passion    ' 
_iie  source  of  he . 
atoo,  the  Scotch  a 
n  who  slew  him 


Mitchell,     the    English    gentle-man 
found    bohernia    an   active    poison; 
.d    some    of    the    little      models      and 
venches  are  .  clever,   indeed.     It   makes 
a.   great  welter  altogether,   and   Cannan 
handles   it  with  sinister   mastery.     But 
'tis  an  ill  book,  Judge  it  how  you  will. 
The  theory -th^t  man  is  only  free  when 
he    is    denied    doesn't    sound    very    con- 
vincing to   me,    and   reiteration   doesn't 
strengthen  the  argument. 


/££ 


.  i- 


MENDEL 

GILBERT  CANNAN 


MENDEL 

A  STORY  OF  YOUTH 


BY 

GILBERT  GANNAN 

AUTHOR  OP  "THREE  SONS  AND  A  MOTHER,"  "OLD  MOLE," 
"ROUND  THE  CORNER,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQl6, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


To  D.  C. 

Shall  tears  be  shed  because  the  blossoms  fall, 
Because  the  cloudy  cherry  slips  away, 

And  leaves  its  branches  in  a  leafy  thrall 
Till  ruddy  fruits  do  hang  upon  the  spray? 

Shall  tears  be  shed  because  the  youthful  bloom 
And  all  th'excess  of  early  life  must  fade 

For  larger  wealth  of  joy  in  smaller  room 
To  dwell  contained  in  love  of  man  and  maid? 

Nay,  rather  leap,  O  heart,  to  see  fulfilled 
In  certain  joy  th'uncertain  promised  glee, 

To  have  so  many  mountain  torrents  spilled 
For  one  fair  river  moving  to  the  sea. 


2039116 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  ONE:  EAST 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  LONDON  WHERE  THE  KING  LIVES   .   .   .   .  n 

II.  POVERTY 21 

III.  PRISON 35 

IV.  FIRST  LOVE 53 

V.  A  TURNING-POINT 64 

VI.  EDGAR  FROITZHEIM  AND  OTHERS       .       .       .       .  75 

VII.  THE  DETMOLD 84 

VEIL  HETTY  FINCH 97 

IX.  THE  QUINTETTE no 

X.  MORRISON 137 

BOOK  TWO:  BOHEMIA 

I.  THE  POT-AU-FEU 149 

II.  LOGAN 161 

III.  LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK 173 

IV.  BURNHAM  BEECHES 190 

V.  HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD 204 

VI.  CAMDEN  TOWN  T".       .       .       .     £.       .       .       .  218 

VII.  MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE      . 231 


8  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


VIII.  THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE 246 

IX.  "GOOD-BYE" 258 

X.  PARIS      . 270 

BOOK  THREE:  THE  PASSING  OF  YOUTH 

I.  EDWARD  TUTNELL 295 

II.  THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS 307 

III.  SUCCESS 3!8 

IV.  REACTION 332 

V.  LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY 343 

VI.  REVELATION 359 

VII.  CONFLICT       .              378 

VIII.  OLIVER 397 

IX.  LOGAN  MAKES  AN  END 420 

X.  PASSOVER 


BOOK  ONE:    EAST 


BOOK   ONE:    EAST 

CHAPTER  I 

LONDON    WHERE   THE    KING   LIVES 


THE  boat-train  had  disgorged  its  passengers,  who 
had  huddled  together  in  a  crowd  round  the  luggage 
as  it  was  dragged  out  of  the  vans,  and  then  had  jostled 
their  way  out  into  the  London  they  had  been  so  long 
approaching.  When  the  crowd  scattered  it  left  like  a 
deposit  a  little  knot  of  strange-looking  people  in  brilliant 
clothes  who  stared  about  them  pathetically  and  helplessly. 
There  were  three  old  men  who  seemed  to  be  strangers 
to  each  other  and  a  handsome  Jewess  with  her  family — 
two  girls  and  three  boys.  The  two  elder  boys  carried 
on  their  backs  the  family  bedding,  and  the  youngest 
clung  to  his  mother's  skirts  and  was  frightened  by  the 
noise,  the  hurrying  crowds  of  people,  the  vastness  and 
the  ugly,  complicated  angular  lines  of  the  station.  The 
woman  looked  disappointed  and  hurt.  Her  eyes  searched 
through  the  crowds,  through  every  fresh  stream  of  peo- 
ple. She  was  baffled  and  anxious.  Once  or  twice  she 
was  accosted,  but  she  could  not  understand  a  word  of 
what  was  said  to  her.  At  last  she  produced  a  piece  of 
paper  and  showed  it  to  a  railway  official,  who  came  up 
thinking  it  was  time  these  outlandish  folk  moved  on. 

ii 


12  MENDEL 


He  could  not  read  what  was  written  on  it,  for  the 
paper  was  very  dirty  and  the  characters  were  crabbed 
and  awkwardly  written.  He  turned  to  the  old  men,  one 
of  whom  said  excitedly  the  only  English  words  he  knew 
— "London — Jewish — Society."  The  official  looked  re- 
lieved. These  people  did  not  look  like  Jews,  and  the 
eldest  girl  and  the  little  boy  were  lovely.  He  went  away, 
and  the  woman,  whose  hopes  had  risen,  once  more  looked 
disconsolate.  The  little  boy  buried  his  face  in  her  apron 
and  wept. 

A  surburban  train  came  wheezing  into  the  platform, 
which  was  at  once  alive  with  hurrying  men  in  silk  hats 
and  tail-coats.  Catching  sight  of  the  brilliantly  attired 
group,  the  handsome  woman  and  the  lovely  girl,  the 
boys  with  their  heads  bowed  beneath  the  billowing  piles 
of  feather  bedding,  some  of  them  stopped.  The  little 
boy  looked  up  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  One  man  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  and  threw  down  a  few  coppers.  Oth- 
ers followed  his  example,  and  the  little  boy  ran  after 
the  showering  pennies  as  they  bounced  in  the  air,  and 
rolled,  span,  and  settled.  He  danced  from  penny  to 
penny  and  a  crowd  gathered;  for,  in  his  bright  jerkin 
and  breeches  and  little  top-boots,  dancing  like  a  sprite, 
gay  and  wild,  he  was  an  astonishing  figure  to  find  in  the 
grime  and  ugliness  of  the  station.  Silver  was  thrown 
among  the  pennies  to  keep  him  dancing,  but  at  last  he 
was  exhausted  and  ran  to  his  mother  with  his  fists  full 
of  money,  and  the  men  hurried  on  to  their  offices. 

The  official  returned  with  an  interpreter,  who  discov- 
ered that  the  woman's  name  was  Kiihler,  that  she  had 
expected  to  be  met  by  her  husband,  that  she  had  come 
from  Austrian  Poland,  and  that  the  address  written  on 
the  piece  of  paper  was  Gun  Street.  The  number  was  in- 
decipherable. 


LONDON  WHERE  THE  KING  LIVES  13 

The  three  old  men  were  given  instructions  and  they 
went  away.  The  interpreter  took  charge  of  the  fam- 
ily and  led  them  to  a  refuge,  where  he  left  them,  saying 
that  he  would  go  and  find  Mr.  Kiihler.  With  a  roof 
over  her  head  and  food  provided  for  her  children,  Mrs. 
Kiihler  sat  stoically  to  wait  for  the  husband  she  had 
not  seen  for  two  years.  She  had  no  preconceived  idea 
of  London,  and  this  bleak,  bare  room  was  London  to 
her,  quite  acceptable.  The  stress  and  the  anxiety  of  the 
detestable  journey  were  over.  This  was  peace  and  good. 
Her  husband  would  find  her.  He  had  come  to  make  a 
home  in  London.  He  had  sent  for  her.  He  would  come. 

Hours  passed.  They  slept,  ate,  talked,  walked  about 
the  room,  and  still  Mr.  Kiihler  did  not  come.  The  peace 
of  the  refuge  was  invaded  with  memories  of  the  jour- 
ney, the  rattle,  rattle,  rattle  of  the  train-wheels,  the 
brusque  officials  who  treated  the  poor  travellers  like  par- 
cels, the  soldiers  at  the  frontiers,  the  wet,  bare  quay 
in  Holland,  the  first  sight  of  the  sea,  immense,  ominous, 
heaving,  heaving  up  to  the  sky;  the  stinking  ship  that 
heaved  like  the  sea  and  made  the  brain  oscillate  like  milk 
in  a  pan ;  the  solidity  of  the  English  quay,  wet  and  bare, 
and  of  the  English  train,  astonishingly  comfortable.  .  .  . 
And  still  Mr.  Kiihler  did  not  come. 

The  girls  were  cold  and  miserable.  The  boys  wrestled 
and  practised  feats  of  strength  with  each  other  to  keep 
warm,  and  looked  to  their  mother  for  applause.  She  gave 
it  them  mechanically  as  she  sat  by  the  little  boy,  whom 
she  had  laid  to  sleep  on  the  bedding.  He  would  be 
hungry,  she  thought,  when  he  woke  up,  and  she  must  get 
him  food.  There  was  the  money  which  had  been  thrown 
to  him,  but  she  did  not  know  its  value.  People  do  not 
throw  much  money  away.  At  home  people  do  not  throw 
even  small  money  away.  There  such  a  thing  could  not 


14  MENDEL 


happen.  There  money,  like  everything  else,  avoids  the 
poor.  But  this  was  rich  England,  where  it  rained  money. 

When  the  boy  woke  up  she  would  go  out  and  buy 
him  something  good  to  eat,  and  if  Mr.  Kuhler  did  not 
come  to-morrow  she  would  find  some  work  and  a  room, 
or  a  corner  of  a  room,  to  live  in.  Perhaps  Jacob  had 
gone  to  America  again.  He  had  been  there  twice,  and 
both  times  suddenly.  People  always  went  to  America 
suddenly.  He  went  out  and  bought  a  clean  collar,  and 
said  he  was  going  and  would  send  money  for  her  as 
soon  as  he  had  enough.  .  .  .  Poor  Jacob,  he  could  not 
endure  their  poverty  and  he  would  not  steal,  but  he  would 
always  fight  the  soldiers  and  the  bailiffs  when  they  came 
to  take  the  bedding.  .  .  .  The  sea  heaved,  and  it  rained 
money.  The  two  boys  began  to  fight,  a  sudden  fury 
in  both  of  them.  Their  sisters  rushed  to  part  them  and 
Mrs.  Kiihler  rose. 

At  the  end  of  the  long  room  she  saw  Jacob  peering 
from  group  to  group.  He  looked  white  and  ill,  as  he  had 
done  when  he  came  again  and  again  to  implore  her  to 
marry  him,  and  she  felt  half  afraid  of  him,  as  she  had 
done  when  the  violent  fury  of  love  in  him  had  broken 
down  her  resistance  and  dragged  her  from  her  comfort- 
able home  to  the  bare  life  he  had  to  offer  her.  He  came 
to  her  now  with  the  same  ungraciousness  that  had  marked 
his  wooing,  explained  to  her  that  he  had  just  got  a  job 
and  could  not  get  away  to  meet  her,  and  turned  from  her 
to  the  children.  The  boys  were  grown  big  and  strong, 
and  the  eldest  girl  was  a  beauty.  He  was  satisfied, 
stooped  and  picked  up  little  Mendel  in  his  strong  arms. 
The  child  woke  up,  gave  a  little  grunt  of  pleasure  as  he 
recognised  the  familiar  smell  of  his  father,  and  went  to 
sleep  again. 


LONDON  WHERE  THE  KING  LIVES  15 

"He's  heavy,"  said  Mrs.  Kiihler.  "You  cannot  carry 
him  all  the  way." 

"His  face  is  like  a  flower,"  said  Jacob. 

He  went  first,  carrying  the  boy,  and  his  family  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  roaring  streets.  The  lamps  were 
lit  and  the  shops  were  dazzling.  There  were  barrows  of 
fruit,  fish,  old  iron,  books,  cheap  jewellery,  all  lit  up  with 
naphtha  flares.  The  children  were  half  frightened,  half 
delighted.  The  smells  and  the  noise  of  the  streets  ex- 
cited them.  Every  now  and  then  they  heard  snatches 
of  their  own  language  and  were  comforted.  They  came 
to  shops  bearing  Yiddish  characters  and  London  no 
longer  seemed  to  them  forbiddingly  foreign,  though  they 
began  to  feel  conscious  of  their  clothes,  which  made  them 
conspicuous.  The  boys  cursed  and  growled  under  the 
bedding  and  began  to  complain  that  they  had  so  far  to 
go.  Mr.  Kiihler  found  the  child  too  heavy  and  had  to 
put  him  down.  Mendel  took  his  mother's  hand  and  trot- 
ted along  by  her  side. 

They  turned  into  a  darkish  street  which  ran  for  some 
length  between  very  tall  houses.  It  was  obscure  enough 
to  allow  the  clear  sky  to  be  seen,  patched  with  cloud  and 
deep  blue,  starry  spaces.  At  the  end  of  it  was  a  build- 
ing covered  with  lights  and  illuminated  signs.  They 
shone  golden  and  splendid.  Never  had  Mendel  seen  any- 
thing so  glorious,  so  rich,  so  dream-like,  so  clearly  cor- 
responding to  that  marvellous  region  where  all  his 
thoughts  ended,  passed  out  of  his  reach,  and  took  on  a 
brilliant  and  mighty  life  of  their  own,  a  glory  greater 
than  that  of  the  Emperor  at  home.  But  this  was  Eng- 
land and  had  only  a  King. 

"Does  the  King  live  there?"  he  asked  his  mother. 

"No;  that  is  a  shop." 

"Has  father  got  a  shop  like  that?" 


16  MENDEL 


"Not  yet." 

"Will  he  soon  have  a  shop  like  that?" 

"Very  soon." 

Mendel  would  have  liked  to  have  stood  and  gazed  at 
the  glorious,  glittering  shop.  He  felt  sure  the  King 
must  buy  his  boots  there,  and  he  thought  that  if  he 
stayed  long  enough  he  would  see  the  King  drive  up  in 
his  crystal  coach,  with  his  crown  on  his  head,  and  go 
into  the  shop.  But  his  father  led  the  way  out  of  the 
darkish  street  into  another  that  was  still  darker,  very 
narrow,  and  flanked  with  little  low  houses.  One  of  these 
they  entered,  and  in  a  small,  almost  unfurnished  room 
they  had  supper,  and  Mendel  went  to  sleep  hearing  his 
father  say  to  his  mother,  "Thirteen  shillings."  Just  be- 
fore that  his  father  had  held  his  hands  out  under  the 
candle,  and  they  were  raw  and  bleeding. 

One  room  was  luxury  to  them.  At  home  in  Austria 
they  had  had  a  corner  of  a  room,  and  the  three  other  cor- 
ners were  occupied  by  the  carpenter,  the  stableman,  and 
the  potter.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  the  common 
water-bucket  and  the  common  refuse-tub.  London  had 
showered  money  on  them  and  provided  them  with  a 
whole  room.  They  felt  hopeful. 

Mr.  Kiihler  made  thirteen  shillings  a  week  polishing 
walking-sticks,  and  when  that  trade  was  bad  he  could 
sometimes  get  work  as  a  furrier.  He  had  intended  to 
take  his  family  over  to  America,  but  finding  work  in 
London,  he  thought  it  better  to  stay  there.  Besides,  he 
had  a  grudge  against  America,  for  while  there  he  had 
invented  a  device  for  twisting  tails  of  fur,  but  his  in- 
vention had  been  stolen  from  him  and  he  had  missed  his 
chance  of  making  a  fortune.  America  was  evil  and  liv- 
ing was  very  dear.  London  was  the  more  comfortable 


LONDON  WHERE  THE  KING  LIVES  17 

place  for  the  struggle.  And  in  London  he  had  found 
Abramovich,  the  friend  of  his  boyhood,  the  one  creature 
in  the  world  upon  whom  he  relied.  He  had  no  reason 
for  his  faith.  Abramovich  had  never  done  him  any  good, 
but  he  was  not  of  those  who  pass.  He  might  disappear 
for  years,  but  he  always  came  back  again,  and  time  made 
no  difference.  He  was  always  the  same.  If  help  was 
needed  he  gave  it,  and  if  he  needed  help  he  asked  for  it. 
Abramovich  was  a  very  strong  reason  for  staying  in 
London.  .  .  .  The  boys  would  soon  be  working  and  the 
eldest  girl  was  a  beauty.  The  match-makers  would  be 
busy  with  her.  Another  two  years,  and  the  match-mak- 
ers would  find  her  a  rich  man  who  would  help  them  all 
and  put  money  into  a  business.  That  was  Jacob's  desire, 
to  have  a  business  of  his  own,  for  he  loathed  working 
for  another  man.  He  could  not  do  it  for  long.  Always 
he  ended  with  a  quarrel,  perhaps  with  blows,  or  he  simply 
walked  out  and  would  not  return. 

He  was  a  devout  Jew  and  despised  Christians,  as  he 
despised  luxury,  pleasure,  comfort,  not  actively  nor  with 
any  hatred.  He  simply  did  not  need  them.  He  had  lived 
without  them,  and  he  asked  nothing  of  life.  He  was 
alive ;  that  was  enough.  Passions  seized  him  and  he  fol- 
lowed them.  Without  passion  he  never  moved,  never 
stirred  a  finger  except  to  keep  himself  alive.  Passion 
had  chosen  his  wife  for  him.  Golda,  the  beautiful,  was 
his  wife.  In  her  he  was  bound  more  firmly  to  his  race 
and  his  faith,  and  there  was  no  need  to  look  beyond.  .  / 
He  was  rooted.  She  had  borne  him  children,  but  he  had  * 
no  more  ambition  for  them  than  for  himself.  Leah,  the 
beauty,  should  wed  a  rich  man,  not  for  ambitious  rea- 
sons, but  because,  in  life,  beauty  and  riches  were  proper 
mates.  There  is  a  certain  orderliness  about  life,  and  cer- 
tain things  can  only  be  prevented  by  an  irruption  of  pas- 


i8  MENDEL 


sion.  If  that  happens,  then  life  takes  its  revenge  and 
becomes  hard  and  bleak,  but  it  is  still  life,  and  only  a  fool 
will  complain.  Jacob  never  complained,  and  he  took  his 
Golda's  reproaches  in  silence,  unless  she  became  unjust, 
and  then  he  silenced  her  brutally  and  callously.  She 
bore  with  him,  because  she  prized  his  honesty,  his  stead- 
fast simplicity,  and  because  she  knew  that  his  passion 
had  never  wakened  a  profound  answer  in  herself.  She 
had  very  slowly  been  roused  to  love,  which  had  flowered 
in  her  with  the  birth  of  her  youngest  child,  in  whom  she 
had  learned  a  power  of  acceptance  almost  equal  to  her 
husband's.  Like  him,  she  clung  to  her  race  and  her  faith 
and  never  looked  beyond. 

In  London  she  found  that  she  was  left  alone  and  her 
life  was  no  longer  hemmed  in  by  a  menacing  world  of 
soldiers  and  police  and  peasants,  who  swore  the  Jews 
cheated  them  and  spread  terrifying  tales  of  Jewish  prac- 
tices upon  Christian  children.  Christian  London  was  in- 
different to  the  Jews,  and  she  could  be  indifferent  to 
Christian  London.  She  had  no  curiosity  about  it  and 
never  went  above  a  mile  from  her  house.  She  mad  no  at- 
tempt to  learn  English,  but  could  not  help  gleaning  a  few 
words  from  her  children  as  they  picked  it  up  at  school. 
The  synagogue  was  the  centre  of  her  life,  and  from  it 
came  all  the  life  she  cared  to  have  outside  her  family.  She 
was  absorbed  in  little  Mendel,  by  whom  her  world  was 
coloured.  If  he  was  happy,  that  was  sunshine  to  her. 
If  he  was  oppressed  and  tearful,  her  sky  was  overcast. 
If  he  was  ill,  it  seemed  to  her  a  menace  of  the  end. 

He  was  a  strange  child  and  very  slow  in  growing  into 
a  boy.  The  other  children  had  seemed  to  shoot  into  in- 
dependence almost  as  soon  as  they  could  walk.  But 
Mendel  clung  to  her,  would  not  learn  to  feed  himself, 
and  would  not  go  to  sleep  at  night  unless  she  sang  to 


LONDON  WHERE  THE  KING  LIVES  19 

him  and  rocked  him  in  the  cradle,  in  which  he  slept  even 
after  he  went  to  school.  As  long  as  he  could  curl  up 
in  it  he  slept  in  his  cradle,  and  he  made  her  learn  as  much 
as  she  could  of  an  English  song  which  had  caught  his 
fancy.  It  was  the  only  English  song  she  ever  knew, 
and  night  after  night  she  had  to  sing  it  over  and  over 
again  as  she  rocked  the  heavy  cradle : — 

Daisy,  Daisy,  give  me  your  answer,  do; 
I'm  half  crazy,  all  for  the  love  of  you. 

She  had  no  idea  what  the  words  meant,  but  the  boy 
loved  the  tune  and  her  funny  accent  and  intonation,  and 
even  when  she  was  ill  and  tired  she  would  sing  him  to 
sleep,  and  then  sit  brooding  over  him  with  her  fingers 
just  touching  his  curly  hair.  And  in  her  complete  ab- 
sorption in  his  odd,  unchildlike  childhood  she  was  per- 
fectly content,  and  entirely  indifferent  to  all  that  happened 
outside  him.  Brutal  things,  terrible  things  happened,  but 
they  never  touched  the  child,  and  if  she  could,  she  hid 
the  knowledge  of  them  from  him. 

Abramovich  collected  a  little  capital  and  persuaded 
Mr.  Kiihler  to  join  him  in  a  furrier's  business.  They 
were  not  altogether  unsuccessful,  and  Mr.  Kiihler  took 
a  whole  house  in  Gun  Street  and  bought  a  piano,  but 
soon  their  capital  was  exhausted  and  they  had  given 
more  credit  than  they  were  accorded  and  the  business 
trickled  through  their  ringers.  Mr.  Kiihler  took  to  his 
bed,  for  he  could  sleep  at  will  and  almost  indefinitely, 
and  so  could  avoid  seeing  poverty  once  more  creeping 
up  like  a  muddy  sea  round  his  wife  and  children.  It 
had  been  bad  enough  when  that  happened  at  home,  where 
at  the  worst  there  were  his  relations  to  help,  and  there 
were  the  potato  fields  to  be  despoiled,  and,  at  least,  the 


20  MENDEL 


children  could  be  happy  playing  in  the  roads  or  by  the 
river,  or  on  the  sides  of  the  mountain.  But  here  in  Lon- 
don poverty  was  black  indeed,  and  there  was  no  one  but 
Abramovich  to  help,  and  he  was  in  almost  as  bad  case  as 
himself.  Yet  astonishingly  Abramovich  came  again  and 
again  to  the  rescue.  He  was  a  little  squat,  ugly  man, 
the  stunted  product  of  some  obscure  Russian  ghetto,  and 
he  seemed  to  live  by  and  for  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
Kuhler  family.  In  their  presence  he  glowed,  greedily 
drank  in  every  word  that  Jacob  or  Golda  said,  and  was 
always  loud  in  his  praises  of  the  beautiful  children.  .  .  . 
"The  sky  is  dark  now,"  he  used  to  say,  "but  they  will 
be  rich,  and  they  will  give  you  horses  and  carriages,  and 
Turkey  carpets,  and  footmen,  and  flowers  in  the  winter, 
and  they  will  bring  English  gentlemen  to  the  house  and 
what  you  want,  that  you  shall  have.  ..."  "I  want  noth- 
ing," Jacob  would  say.  "I  want  nothing.  I  will  work 
and  be  my  own  master.  I  will  not  steal  or  help  other 
men  to  steal."  "You  wait,"  Abramovich  would  reply. 
"These  children  have  only  to  go  out  into  London  and 
all  will  be  given  to  them." 

Only  the  eldest  girl  listened  to  these  conversations,  and 
she  used  to  hold  her  head  high,  and  her  face  would  go 
pale  as  ferociously  she  followed  up  the  ideas  they  sug- 
gested to  her. 

But  Abramovich  could  bring  no  consolation.  Jacob 
would  not  go  back  to  the  stick-polishing,  and  at  last  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  went  out  and  bought  a  clean 
collar,  clipped  his  beard,  and  without  a  word  of  farewell, 
went  to  America. 


CHAPTER  II 


POVERTY 


THEN  followed,  for  Golda,  the  blackest  years  of  her 
life.  She  removed  once  more  to  one  room  in  Gun 
Street,  and  she  and  the  two  boys  earned  enough  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together.  She  found  work  in  other  peo- 
ple's houses,  helped  at  parties,  and  when  nothing  else  was 
available  she  went  to  a  little  restaurant  to  assist  as  scul- 
lery-maid, and  stayed  after  closing-time  to  scrub  the  ta- 
bles and  sweep  the  floor.  For  this  she  was  given  crusts 
of  bread  and  scraps  from  the  plates.  She  never  had  a 
word  from  her  husband,  and  she  knew  she  would  not 
hear  unless  he  made  money.  If  he  failed  again,  as  of 
course  he  would,  he  would  live  in  silence,  solitary,  proud, 
avoiding  his  fellow-men,  who  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him  except  he  made  the  surrender  of  dignity  which 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  make.  She  would  not  hear 
from  him,  and  he  would  return  one  day  unannounced, 
without  a  word,  as  though  he  had  come  from  the  next 
street ;  and  as  likely  as  not  he  would  have  given  the  coat 
off  his  back  to  some  one  poorer  than  himself.  .  .  .  Jacob 
was  like  that.  He  would  give  away  on  an  impulse  things 
that  it  had  cost  him  weeks  of  saving  to  acquire.  Low 
as  he  stood  in  the  world,  he  seemed  always  to  be  looking 
downwards,  as  though  he  could  believe  in  what  came 
up  from  the  depths  but  not  in  anything  that  went  beyond 

21 


22  MENDEL 


him.  Golda  could  not  understand  him,  but  she  believed 
in  him  absolutely.  She  knew  that  he  suffered  even  more 
than  she,  and  she  had  learned  from  him  not  to  complain. 
The  Jews  had  always  suffered.  That  was  made  clear  in 
the  synagogue,  where,  in  wailing  over  the  captivity  in 
Babylon,  Golda  found  a  vent  for  her  own  sorrows.  She 
would  weep  over  the  sufferings  of  her  race  as  she  wept 
for  those  who  were  dead,  her  father  and  her  mother, 
and  her  father's  father  and  her  little  brother,  on  the  an- 
niversary of  their  death.  However  poor  she  might  be 
she  had  money  to  buy  candles  for  them,  and  whatever 
the  cost  she  kept  the  observances  of  her  religion. 

So  she  lived  isolated  and  proud,  untouched  by  the  ex- 
citements her  children  found  in  the  houses  of  their 
friends  and  in  the  streets. 

Very  wild  was  the  life  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Gun 
Street.  There  were  constant  feuds  between  Jews  and 
Christians,  battles  with  fists  and  sticks  and  stones.  Old 
Jews  were  insulted  and  pelted  by  Christian  youths,  and 
the  young  Jews  would  take  up  their  cause.  There  were 
violent  disputes  between  landlords  and  tenants,  husbands 
and  wives,  prostitutes  and  their  bullies.  Any  evening, 
walking  along  Gun  Street,  you  might  hear  screaming 
and  growling  in  one  of  the  little  houses.  Louder  and 
louder  it  would  grow.  Suddenly  the  male  voice  would 
be  silent,  the  female  would  rise  to  a  shriek,  the  door 
would  open,  and  out  into  the  street  would  be  propelled  a 
half-naked  woman.  She  would  wail  and  batter  on  the 
door,  and,  if  that  were  of  no  avail,  she  would  go  to  the 
house  of  a  friend  and  silence  would  come  again.  .  .  .  Or 
sometimes  a  door  would  open  and  a  man  would  be  shot 
out  to  lie  limp  and  flabby  in  the  gutter. 

Harry,  the  second  boy,  took  to  this  wild  life  like  a 
duck  to  water.  He  practised  with  dumb-bells  and  learned 


POVERTY  23 

the  art  of  boxing,  and  so  excited  Mendel  with  his  feats 
of  strength  that  he  too  practised  exercises  and  learned 
to  stand  on  his  hands,  and  cheerfully  allowed  his  brother 
to  knock  him  down  over  and  over  again  in  his  ambition 
to  learn  the  elements  of  defence  and  the  use  of  the 
straight  left.  In  vain:  his  brain  was  not  quick  enough, 
or  was  too  quick.  His  hands  would  never  obey  him  in 
time,  but  he  dreamed  of  being  a  strong  man,  the  strong- 
est man  in  the  world,  who  by  sheer  muscle  should  compel 
universal  admiration  and  assume  authority. 

In  the  family  the  child's  superiority  was  acknowl- 
edged tacitly.  He  had  his  way  in  everything.  He  wanted 
such  strange  things,  and  was  adamant  in  his  whims.  If 
he  were  not  allowed  to  do  as  he  wished,  he  lay  on  the 
ground  and  roared  until  he  was  humoured;  or  he  would 
refuse  to  eat ;  or  he  would  go  out  of  the  house  with  the 
intention  of  losing  himself.  As  he  was  known  all 
through  the  neighbourhood  for  his  beauty  that  was  im- 
possible. He  was  an  object  of  pride  to  the  neighbours, 
and  whenever  he  was  found  far  from  home,  there  was 
always  some  one  who  knew  him  to  take  him  back.  But 
Golda  could  not  realise  this,  and  she  suffered  tortures. 

The  boy  loved  the  streets  and  the  shops,  the  markets 
with  their  fruit-stalls  and  fish-barrows,  the  brilliant  col- 
ours in  Petticoat  Lane.  He  would  wander  drinking  in 
with  his  eyes  colour  and  beauty,  shaking  with  emotion 
at  the  sight  of  the  pretty  little  girls  with  their  little  round 
faces,  their  ivory  skins,  and  their  brilliant  black  eyes. 
Ugliness  hurt  him  not  at  all.  It  was  the  condition  of 
things,  the  dark  chaos  out  of  which  flashed  beauty.  But 
cruelty  could  drive  him  nearly  mad,  and  he  would  trem- 
ble with  rage  and  terror  at  the  sight  of  a  woman  with 
a  bloody  face  or  a  man  kicking  a  horse. 

He  had  a  friend,  a  Christian  boy,  named  Artie  Beech, 


24  MENDEL 


who  adored  him  even  as  Abramovich  adored  his  father. 
Golda  was  alarmed  by  this  friendship,  thinking  no  good 
could  come  out  of  the  Christians,  and  she  tried  to  for- 
bid it,  but  the  boy  had  his  way,  and  he  loved  Artie 
Beech  as  a  child  loves  a  doll  or  a  king  his  favourite.  To- 
gether the  two  boys  used  to  creep  home  from  school  gaz- 
ing into  the  shop  windows.  One  day  they  saw  a  brightly 
coloured  advertisement  of  a  beef  extract:  a  picture  of  a 
man  rending  a  lion.  "It  will  make  you  stronger  than  a 
lion,"  said  Mendel.  "Yes,"  said  Artie,  "one  drop  on  the 
tip  of  your  tongue."  "I  would  be  stronger  than  Harry 
if  I  ate  a  whole  bottle,"  replied  Mendel,  and  they  decided 
to  save  up  to  buy  the  strength-giving  elixir.  It  took  them 
seven  weeks  to  save  the  price  of  it.  Then  with  immense 
excitement  they  bought  the  treasure,  took  it  home,  and, 
loathing  the  taste  of  it,  gulped  it  down  and  tossed  a  but- 
ton for  the  right  to  lick  the  cork.  Feeling  rather  sick, 
they  gazed  at  each  other  with  frightened  eyes,  half  ex- 
pecting to  swell  so  that  they  would  burst  their  clothes. 
But  nothing  happened.  Mendel  took  off  his  coat  and  felt 
his  biceps  and  swore  that  they  had  grown.  Artie  took 
off  his  coat :  yes,  his  biceps  had  grown  too. 

They  went  through  the  streets  with  growing  confi- 
dence, and  at  school  they  were  not  afraid.  Mendel's 
new  arrogance  led  him  into  the  only  fight  he  ever  had 
and  he  was  laid  low.  Aching  with  humiliation,  he 
shunned  Artie  Beech  and  went  alone  to  gaze  at  the  pic- 
ture of  the  man  rending  the  lion.  It  took  him  a  week 
of  hard  concentrated  thought  to  realise  that  the  picture 
and  its  legend  were  not  to  be  taken  literally,  and  his  close 
study  led  him  to  another  and  a  strangely  emotional  in- 
terest in  the  picture.  His  eyes  would  travel  up  the  line 
of  the  man's  body  along  his  arms  to  the  lion's  jaws,  and 
then  down  its  taut  back  to  its  paws  clutching  the  ground. 


POVERTY  25 


The  two  lines  springing  together,  the  two  forms  locked, 
gave  an  impression  of  strength,  of  tremendous  impact, 
which,  as  the  boy  gazed,  became  so  violent  as  to  make 
his  head  ache.  At  the  same  time  he  began  to  develop  an 
appetite  for  this  shock,  and  unconsciously  used  his  eyes 
so  as  to  obtain  it.  It  would  sometimes  spring  up  in  him 
suddenly,  without  his  knowing  the  cause  of  it,  when  he 
watched  his  mother  sitting  with  her  hands  folded  on  her 
stomach,  or  cooking  with  her  hand — her  big,  strong, 
working  hand — on  a  fish  or  a  loaf  of  bread. 

One  day  in  Bishopsgate,  that  lordly  and  splendid  thor- 
oughfare which  led  from  the  dark  streets  to  the  glitter- 
ing world,  he  came  on  a  man  kneeling  on  the  pavement 
with  coloured  chalks.  First  of  all  the  man  dusted  the 
stones  with  his  cap,  and  then  he  laid  another  cap  full 
of  little  pieces  of  chalk  by  his  side,  and  then  he  drew  and 
smudged  and  smudged  and  drew  until  a  slice  of  salmon 
appeared.  By  the  side  of  the  salmon  he  drew  a  glass 
of  beer  with  a  curl  of  froth  on  it  and  a  little  bunch  of 
flowers.  On  another  stone  he  drew  a  ship  at  sea  in  a 
storm,  a  black  and  green  sea,  and  a  brown  and  black 
sky.  Mendel  watched  him  enthralled.  What  a  life! 
What  a  career !  To  go  out  into  the  streets  and  make  the 
dull  stones  lovely  with  colour!  He  saw  the  man  look 
up  and  down  and  then  lay  a  penny  on  the  salmon.  A 
fine  gentleman  passed  by  and  threw  down  another  penny. 
.  .  .  Oh,  certainly,  a  career !  To  make  the  streets  lovely, 
and  immediately  to  be  rewarded! 

From  school  Mendel  stole  some  chalk  and  decorated 
the  stones  in  the  yard  at  Gun  Street.  He  drew  a  bottle 
and  an  onion  and  a  fish,  though  this  he  rather  despised, 
because  it  was  so  easy.  Always  he  had  amused  himself 
with  drawing.  As  a  tiny  child,  the  first  time  his  father 
went  to  America  he  drew  a  picture  of  a  watch  to  ask 


26  MENDEL 


for  that  to  be  sent  him,  and  this  picture  had  been  kept 
by  his  mother.  And  after  that  he  often  drew,  but  chiefly 
because  it  made  his  father  and  mother  proud  of  him, 
and  they  laughed  happily  at  everything  he  did.  The  pave- 
ment artist  filled  him  with  pride  and  pleasure  in  the 
doing  of  it :  and  every  minute  out  of  school  and  away 
from  the  Rabbi  he  devoted  to  drawing.  His  brothers 
bought  him  a  box  of  colours,  and  he  painted  imaginary 
landscapes  of  rivers  and  swans  and  cows  and  castles. 
Every  picture  he  made  was  treasured  by  his  mother. 
They  seemed  to  her,  as  they  did  to  himself,  perfectly 
beautiful.  He  used  his  water-colours  as  though  they 
were  oils,  and  laid  them  on  thick,  to  get  as  near  the 
pavement  artist's  colours  as  possible.  At  school  there 
were  drawing-lessons,  but  they  seemed  to  have  no  re- 
lation to  this  keen  private  pleasure  of  his. 

In  the  evenings  he  would  lie  on  the  ground  in  the 
kitchen  and  paint  until  his  eyes  and  his  head  ached. 
Sometimes  his  perpetual,  silent  absorption  would  so  ex- 
asperate his  brothers  that  they  would  kick  his  paints 
away  and  make  him  get  up  and  talk  to  them.  Then  he 
would  curse  them  with  all  the  rich  curses  of  the  Yiddish 
language,  and  rush  away  and  hide  himself;  for  days 
he  would  live  in  a  state  of  gloom  and  dark  oppression, 
feeling  dimly  aware  of  a  difference  between  him  and  them 
which  it  was  beyond  his  power  to  explain.  He  would 
try  to  tell  his  mother  what  was  the  matter  with  him, 
but  she  could  not  understand.  His  happiness  in  paint- 
ing, the  keen  delight  that  used  to  fill  him,  were  to  her 
compensation  enough  for  her  anxiety  and  the  stress  and 
strain  of  her  poverty. 

His  little  local  fame  procured  her  some  relief.  At 
school  he  won  a  prize  accorded  by  vote  for  the  most 
popular  boy.  This  had  amazed  him,  for  he  had  very  little 


POVERTY  27 

traffic  with  the  others,  and  during  playtime  used  to  stand 
with  his  back  to  the  wall  and  his  arms  folded,  staring  with 
unseeing  eyes.  When  his  sister  asked  one  of  the  boys 
why  Mendel  had  won  the  vote,  the  answer  she  received 
was:  "He  can  draw."  As  a  result  his  brothers  were 
helped  and  his  mother  was  able  to  get  work  as  a  semp- 
stress. They  were  relieved  from  the  poverty  that 
paralyses.  They  could  go  from  day  to  day  and  carry 
their  deficit  from  week  to  week.  They  could  afford 
friends,  and  the  visits  of  friends  on  a  ceremonious 
basis,  and  Abramovich  was  always  trying  to  interest 
rich  men  in  the  wonderful  family. 

It  was  Abramovich  who  bought  Mendel  his  first  box 
of  oil-paints,  not  so  much  to  give  the  boy  pleasure  as 
with  the  idea  that  he  might  learn  to  paint  portraits  from 
photographs.  That,  however,  was  not  in  the  boy's  idea. 
He  abandoned  his  imaginary  landscapes  and  began  to 
paint  objects,  still  in  the  manner  of  the  pavement  artist, 
thrilled  with  the  discovery  that  he  could  more  and  more 
exactly  reproduce  what  he  saw.  He  painted  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  a  cucumber  so  like  the  originals  that  Abramo- 
vich was  wildly  excited  and  rushed  off  to  bring  Mr. 
Jacobson,  a  Polish  Jew,  a  timber-merchant  and  very  rich, 
to  see  the  marvel. 

Mendel  was  unprepared.  He  sat  painting  in  the 
kitchen  with  his  mother  and  Lotte,  his  younger  sister. 
Abramovich  and  Mr.  Jacobson  came  in.  Jacobson  was 
ruddy,  red-haired,  with  a  strange  broad  face  and  a 
flat  nose,  almost  negroid  about  the  nostrils.  He  wore  a 
frock-coat,  a  white  waistcoat  with  a  cable-chain  across 
it,  and  rings  upon  his  fingers.  Mendel  had  a  horror  of 
him,  and  was  overcome  with  shyness.  Mr.  Jacobson  put 
on  his  spectacles,  stared  at  the  picture.  "Ye-es,"  he  said. 
"That  bread  could  be  eaten.  That  cucumber  could  be 


28  MENDEL 


cut  and  put  into  the  soup.  The  boy  is  all  right.  Eh? 
Ye-es,  and  a  beautiful  boy,  too."  Mendel  writhed.  Golda 
was  almost  as  overcome  with  shyness  as  he.  In  silence 
she  produced  all  the  boy's  drawings  and  pictures  and  laid 
them  before  the  visitors.  Abramovich  was  loud  in  his 
praises,  but  not  too  loud,  for  he  knew  that  Mr.  Jacob- 
son  loved  to  talk.  And  indeed  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Jacob- 
son  would  never  stop.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  wagged  his  fat,  stumpy  hands  and  held 
forth  :— 

"In  my  country,  Mrs.  Kiihler,  there  was  once  a  poor 
boy.  He  was  always  drawing.  Give  him  a  piece  of 
paper  and  a  pencil  and  he  would  draw  anything  in  the 
world.  The  teacher  at  school  had  to  forbid  him  to 
draw,  for  he  would  learn  nothing  at  all.  So  one  day 
the  teacher  could  not  find  that  boy.  And  where  do 
you  think  they  find  him  ?  Under  the  table.  The  teacher 
pulled  him  out  and  found  in  his  hand  a  piece  of  paper 
— a  piece  of  paper.  The  teacher  looked  down  at  the 
piece  of  paper  and  fainted  away.  The  boy  had  drawn 
a  picture  of  the  teacher  so  like  that  he  fainted  away. 
Well,  when  the  teacher  came  to  himself,  he  said :  'Boy, 
did  you  do  that?'  'Yes/  said  the  boy,  'I  did  that.' 
'Then,'  said  the  teacher,  'I  will  tell  you  what  you  must 
do.  You  must  paint  a  portrait  of  the  King  and  take  it 
to  the  King,  and  he  will  give  you  money,  and  carriages, 
and  houses,  and  rings,  and  watches,  for  you  and  your 
father,  and  your  uncles  and  all  your  family.'  Ahin  and 
aher.  The  boy  did  that.  He  painted  a  portrait  of  the 
King  and  he  took  it  to  the  palace.  He  went  to  the 
front  door  arid  knock,  knock,  knock.  A  lady  opened 
the  door  and  she  said:  'What  do  you  want,  little  boy?' 
'I  want  to  see  the  King.  I  have  something  to  show  him.' 
'I  am  the  Queen,'  said  the  lady.  'You  can  show  it  to 


POVERTY  29 


me.'  The  boy  showed  the  picture  and  the  Queen  fainted 
away.  The  servants  and  the  King  came  running  in  to 
see  what  had  happened,  and  they  stood  like  stone.  'Who 
did  that?'  said  the  King.  'I  did,'  said  the  boy.  'I  don't 
believe  him,'  said  the  King.  'Shut  him  up  for  a  day 
and  a  night,  give  him  paint  and  brushes,  and  we  will  see 
what  he  can  do.'  Well,  they  shut  the  boy  up  for  a  day 
and  a  night,  and  in  the  morning  the  door  was  opened 
and  the  King  and  the  Queen  came  in.  The  King  took 
off  his  hat  and  put  it  on  the  table  and  it  fell  to  the  ground. 
That  boy  had  painted  a  picture  of  a  table  so  like  that  the 
King  thought  it  was  a  real  table  and  tried  to  put  his 
hat  on  it.  It  is  true,  and  the  boy  painted  the  King's 
portrait  every  Saturday  until  he  died,  and  he  had  houses 
and  money  and  footmen  and  statues  in  his  garden,  and 
his  father  and  mother  drove  in  their  carriages  and  wore 
sables  even  in  the  summer.  And  some  day,  Mrs.  Kiihler, 
we  shall  see  you  in  your  carriage  and  this  boy  painting 
the  portrait  of  the  King." 

The  story  was  received  in  silence.  The  emotions  it 
aroused  in  Golda  and  her  son  were  so  profound,  so  vio- 
lent that  they  were  dazed.  The  tension  was  relieved 
by  a  giggle  from  Lotte,  who  knew  that  kings  do  not  wear 
hats.  Mendel  sat  staring  at  his  picture,  which,  try  as 
he  would,  he  could  not  connect  with  the  story. 

Abramovich  said :  "I  told  you  so,  Mrs.  Kiihler.  I 
told  you  something  would  come  of  it."  Already  he  was 
convinced  that  Mendel  only  had  to  go  out  into  London 
to  make  the  family's  fortune. 

But  Golda  replied :  "There's  time  enough  for  that, 
and  don't  go  putting  ideas  into  the  boy's  head." 

There  was  no  danger  of  that.  Mendel's  was  not  the 
kind  of  head  into  which  ideas  are  easily  put.  He  was 
slow  of  comprehension,  powerful  in  his  instincts,  and 


30  MENDEL 


everything  he  perceived  had  to  be  referred  to  them. 
Schgol  was  to  him  a  perfectly  extraneous  experience. 
What  he  learned  there  was  of  so  little  use  to  any  pur- 
pose of  which  he  was  conscious,  and  it  could  not  be 
shared  with  his  mother.  To  her  schooling  was  the  law 
of  the  land.  A  strange  force  took  her  boy  from  her 
every  day  and,  as  it  were,  imprisoned  him.  When  he 
was  fourteen  he  would  be  free.  She  must  endure  his 
captivity  as  she  had  learned  to  endure  so  much  else. 

When  Mr.  Jacobson  had  gone  she  said :  "There  have 
been  boys  like  that,  and  a  good  boy  never  forgets  his 
father  and  mother." 

Mendel  looked  puzzled  and  said:  "When  7  drew  a 
picture  of  teacher  he  caned  me." 

"Caned  you?"  cried  Golda,  horrified. 

"He  often  does." 

"Thrashed  you!"  cried  Golda;  "on  the  hands?" 

"No,"  replied  Mendel,  "on  the  seat  and  the  back." 

Golda  made  him  undress,  and  she  gave  a  gasp  of 
anger  when  she  saw  the  weals  and  bruises  on  his  back. 
"But  what  did  you  do?"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Mendel.  This  was  true. 
At  school  he  would  suddenly  find  the  teacher  towering 
over  him  in  a  fury;  he  would  be  told  to  stay  behind, 
and  then  he  would  be  flogged.  He  had  suffered  more 
from  the  humiliation  than  from  the  pain  inflicted.  He 
could  never  understand  why  this  fury  should  descend 
upon  him  out  of  his  happy  dreams.  And  now  as  his 
mother  wept  over  the  marks  upon  his  body  the  suffering 
in  him  was  released.  All  the  feeling  suppressed  in  him 
by  his  inability  to  understand  came  tearing  out  of  him 
and  he  shook  with  rage.  He  could  find  no  words  to 
express  these  new  emotions,  which  were  terrible  and 
frightened  him. 


POVERTY  31 

Lotte  came  up  and  felt  the  weals  on  his  back  with 
her  fingers,  and  she  said:  "They  don't  do  that  to 
girls." 

"Be  quiet,  Lotte,"  said  Golda.  "Don't  touch  him. 
You  will  hurt  him."  And  she  stood  staring  in  amaze- 
ment at  the  boy's  back.  "That's  an  awful  mess,"  she 
said  to  herself,  and  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  men  who 
had  been  flogged  by  the  soldiers  in  Austria.  But  this 
was  England,  where  everybody  was  left  alone.  She 
could  not  understand  it.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
The  boy  could  not  be  kept  from  school,  for  they  would 
come  and  drag  him  to  it.  There  were  often  dreadful 
scenes  in  Gun  Street  when  children  were  dragged  off  to 
school.  She  made  Lotte  sit  at  the  table  and  write: 
"Please,  teacher,  you  must  not  beat  my  son.  His  back 
is  like  a  railway-line,  and  it  is  not  good  to  beat  chil- 
dren." She  could  think  of  no  threat  which  could  intimi- 
date the  teacher,  no  power  she  could  invoke  to  her  aid. 
Her  powerlessness  appalled  her.  She  signed  the  letter 
and  thought  she  would  go  to  the  Rabbi  and  ask  him 
what  she  must  do.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "the  Rabbi  will 
tell  me,  and  perhaps  the  Rabbi  will  write  to  the  teacher 
also."  She  could  feel  the  torture  in  the  boy,  and  she 
knew  that  it  must  be  stopped.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
knock  Harry  or  Issy  about.  They  could  put  up  with 
any  amount  of  violence.  But  Mendel  was  different. 
With  him  pain  went  so  deep.  That  was  what  made 
it  horrible.  He  was  like  a  very  little  child.  It  was 
wicked  to  hurt  him.  His  silence  now  was  almost  more 
than  she  could  bear. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Lotte  went  to  open 
it  and  gave  a  little  scream.  It  was  her  father  come 
back  from  America.  He  came  into  the  room,  not  dif- 
ferent by  a  hair  from  when  he  went  away;  thinner, 


32  MENDEL 


perhaps,  a  little  more  haggard  and  hollow  under  the 
eyes,  so  that  the  slight  squint  in  his  right  eye,  injured 
to  avoid  conscription,  was  more  pronounced.  He  came  in 
as  though  he  had  returned  from  his  day's  work,  nodded 
to  his  wife,  and  looked  at  the  boy's  back. 

"Who  has  done  that?"  he  asked. 

"At  school,"  replied  Golda.     "The  teacher." 

Jacob  took  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  picked 
up  a  chair  and  smashed  it  on  the  floor.  Mendel  put 
on  his  shirt  and  coat  again  and  said :  "It  is  like  when 
you  knocked  the  soldier  over  with  the  glass." 

Jacob  gave  a  roar:  "Ah,  you  remember  that?  Ah! 
yes.  That  was  when  I  had  the  inn  near  the  barracks. 
He  was  an  officer.  Two  of  them  came  in.  They  were 
drunk,  the  swine !  The  man  made  for  your  mother  and 
the  officer  for  your  sister.  The  glasses  were  big,  with 
a  heavy  base.  I  took  one  of  them  .  .  ." 

"And  the  man  spun  round  three  times  and  fell  flat 
on  the  floor,"  said  Mendel. 

"Ah!  you  remember  that?  Yes.  And  I  lifted  him  out 
into  the  street  and  left  him  there  in  the  snow.  I  was 
a  strong  man  then.  I  wanted  nothing  from  them,  but 
if  they  touch  what  is  mine  .  .  .  !"  He  seized  Mendel 
and  lifted  him  high  over  his  head.  He  was  tremendously 
excited  and  could  not  be  got  to  sit  down  or  to  talk  of 
his  doings  in  America  or  of  his  voyage.  That  was  his 
way.  He  would  talk  in  his  own  time.  His  doings  would 
come  out  piecemeal,  over  years  and  years.  Now  he  was 
entirely  absorbed  with  his  fury.  He  was  nearly  ill  with 
it  and  could  not  eat.  Up  and  down  the  room  he  walked, 
lashing  up  his  rage.  Mendel  was  sent  to  bed,  and  until 
he  went  to  sleep  he  could  hear  his  father  pacing  up  and 
down  and  his  mother  talking,  explaining,  entreating. 

Next  morning  Mendel  had  almost  forgotten  the  ex- 


POVERTY  33 


citement  and  went  to  school  as  usual.  In  the  middle  of 
an  arithmetic  lesson  in  walked  Jacob,  very  white,  with 
his  head  down.  He  went  quickly  up  to  the  teacher  and 
spoke  to  him  quietly.  The  class  was  stunned  into  silence. 
Jacob  raised  his  fist  and  the  teacher  went  down.  Jacob 
picked  him  up,  shook  him,  and  threw  him  into  a  corner. 
Then  he  shouted:  "You  won't  touch  my  boy  again!" 
shook  himself  like  a  dog,  and  walked  out,  closing  the 
door  very  quietly.  The  teacher  hurried  out  and  did  not 
return.  The  class  slowly  recovered  from  its  astonish- 
ment, shrill  voices  grew  out  of  the  silence  like  a  strong 
wind,  and  books  and  inkpots  began  to  fly.  Soon  the 
walls  were  streaked  and  spattered  with  ink  and  when  it 
became  known  that  it  was  Kiihler's  father  who  had  done 
it,  Mendel  found  himself  a  hero.  But  he  took  no  pride 
in  it.  He  was  haunted  by  the  teacher's  white,  terrified 
face.  He  had  always  thought  of  the  teacher  as  a  nice 
man.  The  thrashings  inflicted  on  him  had  always  seemed 
to  him  impersonal  and  outside  humanity  altogether. 
Yet  because  it  was  his  father  who  had  thrashed  the 
teacher  he  accepted  it  as  right.  At  home  his  father, 
even  in  his  absence,  was  the  law,  and  could  do  no  wrong. 
The  violent  scene  seemed  to  Mendel  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  himself,  and  he  resented  having  become  the 
centre  of  attention. 

The  head  master  hurried  in,  quelled  the  class,  went 
on  with  the  lesson  where  it  had  been  interrupted.  Men- 
del could  not  attend.  He  was  bewildered  by  a  sudden 
realisation  of  life  outside  himself.  It  was  no  longer  a 
procession  of  events,  figures,  scenes,  colours,  shapes,  light 
and  darkness  passing  before  his  eyes,  always  charming, 
sometimes  terrifying,  but  something  violent  which  met 
another  something  in  himself  with  a  fearful  impact.  It 
could  hurt  him,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  merciless,  for 


34  MENDEL 


the  thing  in  himself  that  answered  to  it  and  rushed 
out  to  meet  it  was  wild  and  knew  no  mercy  either.  He 
had  heard  of  a  thing  called  the  maelstrom  in  the  sea,  a 
kind  of  spout,  with  whirling  sides,  down  which  great 
ships  were  sucked.  And  he  felt  that  he  was  being  sucked 
down  such  a  spout,  in  which  he  could  see  all  that  he 
had  ever  known,  the  mountain  and  the  river  in  Austria, 
the  train,  the  telegraph  wires,  towns,  buses,  faces,  the 
street,  the  school,  Artie  Beech,  Abramovich,  his  father. 
.  .  .  Only  his  mother  stood  firm,  and  from  her  came  a 
force  to  counteract  that  other  force  which  was  drag- 
ging him  towards  the  whirlpool. 

He  became  conscious  of  the  discomfort  in  which  he 
lived  and  was  acutely  aware  of  the  people  by  whom  he 
was  surrounded. 


CHAPTER   III 

PRISON 


THIS  time  in  America  Jacob  had  fared  better,  and 
by  dint  of  half-starving  himself  and  sleeping  when 
he  had  nothing  to  do,  he  had  managed  to  save  over  fifty 
pounds.  Abramovich  borrowed  another  fifty,  and  once 
again  they  set  up  in  business  as  furriers.  They  took 
one  of  the  old  Georgian  houses  off  Bishopsgate,  started  a 
workshop  in  the  top  rooms,  and  in  the  lower  rooms 
the  Kiihler  family  lived,  with  Abramovich  in  lodgings 
round  the  corner.  They  were  only  twenty  yards  from 
the  synagogue  and  Golda  was  happy;  Jacob  too,  for 
in  such  a  house  he  felt  a  solid  man.  And,  indeed,  amid 
the  extreme  poverty  with  which  they  were  surrounded  he 
could  pass  for  wealthy.  He  had  his  name  on  a  brass 
plate  on  the  door  and  was  always  proud  when  he  wrote  it 
on  a  cheque.  He  took  his  eldest  son  into  his  workshop 
to  rescue  him  from  the  fate  of  working  for  another 
master,  and  he  assumed  a  patriarchal  authority  over  his 
family.  His  sons  were  never  allowed  out  after  half- 
past  nine,  and,  tall  youths  though  they  were,  if  they 
crossed  his  will  he  thrashed  them.  The  girls  were  for- 
bidden to  go  out  alone.  They  were  kept  at  home  to  await 
their  fate. 

The  eldest  boy  flung  all  his  ardour  into  dancing,  and 
was  the  champion  slow  waltzer  of  the  neighbourhood. 

35 


With  egg-shells  on  his  heels  to  show  that  he  never 
brought  them  to  the  ground,  he  could  keep  it  up  for 
hours  and  won  many  prizes.  Harry  scorned  this  po- 
lite prowess.  For  him  the  romance  of  the  streets  was 
irresistible:  easy  amorous  conquests,  battles  of  tongues 
and  fists,  visits  to  the  prize-ring,  upon  which  his  young 
ambition  centred.  A  bout  between  a  Jew  and  a  Christian 
would  lead  to  a  free-fight  in  the  audience,  for  the  Jews 
yelled  in  Yiddish  to  their  champion,  and  the  British 
would  suspect  insults  to  them  or  vile  instructions,  and 
would  try  to  enforce  silence  .  .  .  And  Harry  would 
bring  gruff  young  men  to  the  house,  youths  with  puffy 
eyes  and  swollen  or  crooked  or  broken  noses,  and  he 
would  treat  them  with  an  enthusiastic  deference  which 
found  no  echo  in  any  member  of  the  family  save  Men- 
del, who  found  the  world  opened  up  to  him  by  Harry 
large  and  adventurous,  like  the  open  sea  stretching  away 
and  away  from  the  whirlpool. 

There  was  one  extraordinarily  nice  man  whom  Harry 
brought  to  the  house.  His  name  was  Kuit,  and  he  had 
failed  as  a  boxer  and  had  become  a  thief,  a  trade  in 
which  he  was  an  expert.  His  talk  fascinated  Mendel, 
and  indeed  the  whole  family.  None  could  fail  to  listen 
when  he  told  of  his  adventures  and  his  skill.  He  had 
begun  as  a  pickpocket,  plying  his  trade  in  Bishopsgate 
or  the  Mile  End  Road,  and  to  show  his  expertise  he 
would  run  his  hands  over  Jacob's  pockets  without  his 
feeling  it,  and  tell  him  what  they  contained.  Or  he 
would  ask  Golda  to  let  him  see  her  purse,  and  she  would 
grope  for  it  only  to  find  that  he  had  already  taken 
it.  He  had  advanced  from  picking  pockets  to  the  higher 
forms  of  theft:  plundering  hotels  or  dogging  diamond 
merchants,  and  he  was  keenly  interested  in  America. 


PRISON  37 

It  was  through  him  that  the  family  knew  the  little  that 
was  ever  revealed  to  them  of  Jacob's  doings  there. 

Kuit  said  he  would  go  to  America  and  not  return 
until  he  had  ten  thousand  pounds,  all  made  by  honest 
theft,  for  he  would  only  rob  the  rich,  and,  indeed,  he 
was  most  generous  with  his  earnings,  and  gave  Golda 
many  handsome  pieces  of  jewellery,  and  he  lent  Jacob 
money  when  he  badly  needed  it.  That,  however,  was 
not  Jacob's  reason  for  admitting  Kuit  to  his  family  cir- 
cle. He  liked  the  man,  was  fascinated  by  him,  and 
thought  his  morals  were  his  own  affair.  He  knew  his 
race  and  the  poor  too  well  to  be  squeamish,  and  never 
dreamed  of  extending  his  authority  beyond  his  family. 
He  warned  Harry  that  if  he  took  to  Kuit's  practices 
he  would  no  longer  be  a  son  of  his,  and  as  the  accounts 
of  prison  given  to  Harry  by  some  of  his  acquaintances 
were  not  cheering,  Harry  preferred  not  to  run  any  risks. 
Instead,  he  devoted  himself  to  training  for  the  glory  of 
the  prize-ring. 

For  Mendel  the  moral  aspect  of  Kuit's  profession  had 
been  settled  once  and  for  all  by  his  seeing  the  Rabbi 
with  his  face  turned  to  the  wall,  in  the  middle  of  the 
most  terrible  of  prayers,  filch  some  pennies  from  an 
overcoat.  Religion  therefore  was  one  thing,  life  was 
another,  and  life  included  theft.  Kuit  was  the  only  man 
who  could  think  of  painting  apart  from  money,  and  it 
was  Kuit  who  gave  him  a  new  box  of  oil  colours,  stolen 
from  a  studio  which  he  broke  into  on  purpose,  and  en 
passant  from  one  rich  house  in  Kensington  to  another. 
Kuit  used  to  say :  "One  thing  is  true  for  one  man  and 
another  for  another.  And  what  is  true  for  a  man  is 
what  he  does  best.  For  Harry  it  is  boxing,  for  Issy  it 
is  women  and  dancing,  and  for  Mr.  Kiihler  it  is  being 
honest.  For  me  it  is  showing  the  business  thieves  that 


38  MENDEL 


J 


they  cannot  have  things  all  their  own  way,  and  out- 
witting the  police.  Oh  yes !  They  know  me  and  I  know 
them,  but  they  will  never  catch  me." 

So  charming  was  Mr.  Kuit  that  Jacob  could  not  ob- 
ject to  taking  care  from  time  to  time  of  the  property 
that  passed  through  his  hands,  and  the  kitchen  was  often 
splendid  with  marble  clocks  and  Oriental  china  and  Shef- 
field plate,  which  never  looked  anything  but  out  of  place 
among  the  cheap  oleographs  and  the  sideboard  with  its 
green  paper  frills  round  the  flashing  gilt  china  that  was 
never  used.  The  kitchen  was  the  living-room  of  the 
house,  for  Jacob  only  ate  when  he  was  hungry,  and  it 
was  rarely  that  two  sat  down  to  a  meal  together. 

As  often  as  not  Mendel  had  his  paints  on  the  table, 
and  the  objects  he  was  painting  were  not  to  be  moved. 
He  clung  to  his  painting  as  the  only  comfort  in  his 
distress,  and  he  would  frequently  work  away  with  his 
brushes  though  he  could  hardly  see  what  he  was  at, 
and  knew  that  he  was  entirely  devoid  of  the  feeling  that 
until  the  discomfort  broke  out  in  his  soul  had  never 
failed  him.  He  dared  not  look  outside  his  circumstances 
for  comfort,  and  within  them  was  the  most  absolute 
denial  of  that  cherished  feeling  for  loveliness  and  col- 
our. Beyond  certain  streets  he  never  ventured.  He  felt 
lost  outside  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  his  home, 
and  only  Mr.  Kuit  reassured  him  with  the  confidence 
with  which  he  spoke  of  such  remote  regions  as  Kensing- 
ton and  Bayswater  and  Mayfair.  The  rest  clung  to  the 
little  district  where  the  shops  and  the  language  and  the 
smells  were  Jewish.  Yet  there,  too,  Mendel  felt  lost, 
though  he  had  an  immense  reverence  for  the  old  Jews, 
for  the  Rabbis  who  pored  all  day  long  over  their  books, 
and  the  ancient  bearded  men  who,  like  his  mother,  could 
sit  for  hours  together  doing  nothing  at  all.  He  loved 


PRISON  39 

their  tragic,  wrinkled  faces  and  their  steadfast  peace, 
so  stark  a  contrast  to  the  chatter  and  the  wrangling 
and  the  harshness  that  filled  his  home. 

There  were  constant  rows.  Harry  upset  the  house- 
hold for  weeks  after  his  father  forbade  him  to  pursue 
his  prize-fighting  ambitions.  Jacob  would  not  have  a 
son  of  his  making  a  public  show  of  himself.  To  that 
disturbance  was  added  another  when  Issy  began  to  court, 
or  was  courted  by,  a  girl  who  was  thought  too  poor 
and  base-born.  If  he  was  out  a  minute  later  than  half- 
past  nine  Jacob  would  go  out  and  find  him  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  with  the  girl  in  his  arms.  Issy  would  be 
dragged  away.  Then  he  would  sulk  or  shout  that  he  was 
a  man,  and  Jacob  would  tell  him  in  a  cold,  furious  voice 
that  he  could  go  if  he  liked,  but,  if  he  went,  he  must 
never  show  his  face  there  again.  For  a  time  Issy  would 
submit.  Poor  though  the  home  was,  he  could  not  think 
of  leaving  it  except  to  make  another  for  himself.  But 
there  was  no  keeping  the  girl  away,  and  he  would  be 
for  ever  peeping  into  the  street  to  see  if  she  were  there, 
and  if  she  were  he  could  not  keep  away  from  her. 

Leah,  the  eldest  girl,  had  her  courtships  too.  The 
match-makers  were  busy  with  her,  and  a  number  of 
men,  young  and  old,  were  brought  to  view  her.  She 
was  dressed  up  to  look  fine,  and  Jacob  and  Golda  would 
sit  together  to  inspect  the  suitors,  and  at  last  they  chose 
a  huge,  ugly  Russian  Jew,  named  Moscowitsch — Abra- 
ham Moscowitsch,  a  timber-merchant,  who  had  pulled 
himself  up  out  of  the  East  End  and  had  a  house  at 
Hackney.  He  was  a  friend  of  Kuit's  and  was  willing 
to  take  the  girl  without  a  dowry.  Leah  hid  herself 
away  and  wept.  It  was  in  vain  that  Golda,  primed  by 
Jacob,  told  her  that  she  would  be  rich,  and  would  have 
servants  and  carriages,  and  could  buy  at  the  great  shops : 


she  could  not  forget  the  Russian's  bristling  hair  and 
thick  lips  and  coarse,  splayed  nostrils.  The  tears  were 
of  no  avail;  the  marriage  had  been  offered  and  accepted. 
The  wedding  was  fixed,  and  nothing  was  spared  to  make 
it  a  social  triumph.  The  bride  was  decked  out  in  con- 
ventional English  white,  with  a  heavy  veil  and  a  bouquet : 
and  very  lovely  she  looked.  Jacob  wore  his  first  frock- 
coat  and  a  white  linen  collar,  Golda  had  a  dress  made 
of  mauve  cashmere,  with  a  bodice  heavily  adorned  with 
shining  beads,  and  Mendel  had  a  new  sailor  suit  with 
a  mortar-board  cap.  There  were  three  carriages  to  drive 
the  party  the  twenty  yards  to  the  synagogue.  The  wed- 
ding group  was  photographed,  and  a  hall  was  taken  for 
the  feast  and  the  dance  in  the  evening.  The  wedding 
cost  Jacob  the  savings  of  many  years  and  more,  but  he 
grudged  not  a  penny  of  it,  because  he  had  a  rich  son-in- 
law  and  wished  it  to  be  known.  There  were  over  fifty 
guests  at  the  feast. 

Within  a  week  Leah  came  home  again,  pale,  thin, 
and  shrunken.  Moscowitsch  had  been  arrested.  He  had 
gone  bankrupt  and  had  done  "something  with  his  books." 

"Bankrupt!"  said  Jacob;  "bankrupt!" 

He  stood  in  front  of  his  weeping  daughter  and  beat 
against  the  air  with  his  clenched  fists.  She  moaned  and 
protested  that  she  would  never  go  back  to  him.  Jacob 
shook  her  till  her  teeth  chattered  together. 

"You  dare  talk  like  that !  He  is  your  husband.  You 
are  his  wife.  It  is  a  misfortune.  You  should  be  with 
the  lawyers  to  find  out  when  you  can  see  him.  I  am 
to  lose  everything  because  he  is  unfortunate!  A  dog 
•will  not  turn  from  a  man  in  his  misery,  and  must  a 
woman  learn  from  a  dog?  You  are  a  soft  girl!  Go,  I 
say,  and  find  out  when  you  can  see  him.  Was  ever 


a  man  so  crossed  by  Fate !  Where  I  go,  there  luck  takes 
wings." 

His  violence  shook  Leah  out  of  the  dazed  misery 
in  which  she  had  come  home,  having  no  other  idea,  no 
other  place  to  which  to  go.  Jacob  was  at  first  for 
making  his  daughter  wait  in  her  new  home  until  her 
husband  was  returned  to  her.  His  simple  imagination 
seized  on  the  idea  and  visualised  it.  It  seemed  to  him 
admirable,  and  Golda  had  hard  work  to  shake  it  out 
of  his  head.  As  a  piece  of  unnecessary  cruelty  he  could 
not  realise  it,  but  when  it  was  brought  home  to  him  that 
he  would  have  to  pay  the  rent  of  the  house  in  Hackney, 
he  yielded  and  allowed  the  girl  to  stay  at  home. 

Moscowitsch  was  sentenced  to  six  months'  imprison- 
ment, and  a  gloom,  such  as  not  the  darkest  days  of  povr 
erty  had  been  able  to  create,  descended  upon  the  house. 
Jacob  was  ashamed  and  irritable.  He  insisted  upon 
the  most  scrupulous  observance  of  all  the  rites  of  his 
religion,  and  he  forbade  Mendel  to  paint.  Painting  had 
nothing  to  do  with  religion  and  he  would  have  none 
of  it.  He  trampled  on  Mendel's  friendship  with  Artie 
Beech.  The  Christian  world  of  police  and  judges  and 
the  law  had  destroyed  his  happiness,  and  not  the  faintest 
smell  of  Christendom  should  cross  his  door.  Friction 
between  the  father  and  his  two  sons  was  exasperated, 
and  it  seemed  to  Mendel  that  Hell  was  let  loose.  He 
was  nearly  of  an  age  to  leave  school,  and  he  dreamed 
by  the  hour  of  the  freedom  he  would  have  when  he 
went  to  work.  He  would  go  out  early  in  the  morning 
and  come  home  late  in  the  evening.  He  would  stay  in 
the  streets  and  look  at  the  shops  and  watch  the  girls 
go  by.  He  would  go  one  day  out  beyond  London  to 
see  what  the  world  was  like  there.  He  would  find  a 
place  where  there  were  pictures,  and  he  would  feast 


42  MENDEL 


on  them :  for  when  he  went  to  work  he  would  paint 
no  more,  since  painting  would  be  shed  with  the  miserable 
childhood  that  was  so  fast  slipping  away  from  him. 

Yet  a  worse  calamity  was  to  happen.  Once  again 
the  Christian  world  of  police,  law,  and  judges  was  to  in- 
vade the  home  of  the  Kiihlers,  and  this  time  it  was 
Jacob  himself  who  was  taken.  He  was  charged  with  re- 
ceiving stolen  goods.  A  detective-inspector  and  two  con- 
stables invaded  the  house  and  took  possession  of  an 
ormolu  clock,  a  number  of  silver  knives,  and  a  brooch 
which  Mr.  Kuit  had  given  to  Golda.  Five  of  Mr.  Kuit's 
friends  had  been  arrested,  but  Mr.  Kuit  himself  was  not 
implicated.  He  paid  for  the  defence  of  the  prisoners 
and  took  charge  of  the  Kiihler  family,  transferred  the 
business  into  Issy's  name,  and  advanced  money  to  keep 
it  going.  He  spared  neither  time  nor  trouble  to  try  to 
establish  Jacob's  innocence,  but  it  looked  almost  as  though 
some  one  else  was  taking  an  equal  amount  of  trouble 
to  prove  his  guilt,  for  every  move  of  Mr.  Kuit's  was 
countered,  and  Jacob  himself  was  so  bewildered  and 
enraged  that  he  could  not  give  a  coherent  answer  to 
the  questions  put  to  him.  He  babbled  and  raved  of  an 
enemy  who  had  done  this  thing,  of  a  rival  who  had 
plotted  his  ruin,  but  as  he  could  not  give  a  satisfactory 
account  of  the  articles  found  in  his  possession,  his  pas- 
sionate protestations  and  his  fanatical  belief  in  his  own 
honesty  were  of  no  avail.  From  the  dock  in  which  he 
was  placed  with  Mr.  Kuit's  other  friends  he  delivered  a 
vehement  harangue  in  broken  English,  not  more  than 
ten  words  of  which  were  intelligible  to  the  judge  and 
jury.  The  judge  was  kindly,  the  jury  somnolent.  Jacob 
was  the  only  member  of  the  party  with  a  clean  record, 
and  he  received  the  light  sentence  of  eighteen  months; 
the  rest  had  double  that  term  and  more.  In  the  Sunday 


PRISON  43 

papers  they  were  described  as  a  dangerous  gang,  and 
their  portraits  were  drawn  like  profiles  on  a  coin  by  an 
artist  whose  business  it  was  to  make  villains  look  villain- 
ous for  the  delectation  of  the  sober  millions  who  tasted 
the  joys  of  wickedness  only  in  print.  Golda  was  stag- 
gered by  the  blank  indifference  of  the  world  to  her  hus- 
band's honesty.  His  word  to  her  was  law,  but  the 
judge  and  the  newspapers  swept  it  aside,  and  he  was 
regarded  as  one  with  the  wicked  men  whose  crooked 
dealings  had  involved  the  innocent.  This  was  the  worst 
disaster  that  had  ever  broken  upon  her:  husband  and 
son-in-law  both  swept  away  from  her,  as  it  seemed 
now,  in  one  moment.  The  sympathy  she  received  from 
the  neighbours  touched  her  profoundly,  and  she  accepted 
their  view  that  the  sudden  abstraction  of  male  relatives 
was  a  natural  calamity,  like  sickness  or  fire.  Thanks  to 
Mr.  Kuit  the  business  would  be  kept  together,  and 
thanks  to  Abramovich  she  never  lacked  company.  That 
faithful  friend  would  come  in  in  the  evenings  and  go 
over  the  trial,  every  moment  of  which  he  had  heard, 
and  recount  every  word  of  Jacob's  speech,  which  to  him 
was  a  piece  of  magnificent  oratory.  "Not  a  tear  was 
left  in  my  eyes,"  he  said.  "Not  a  throb  was  left  in  my 
heart,  and  the  judge  was  moved,  for  his  face  sank  into 
his  hands  and  I  could  see  that  he  knew  how  unjust  he 
must  be."  And  he  spent  many  days  ferreting  out  a  vil- 
lain to  be  the  cause  of  it  all,  some  inveterate,  implacable 
enemy  who  had  plotted  the  downfall  of  the  most  honest 
man  in  London.  He  fixed  on  a  certain  Mr.  Rosenthal, 
who  years  ago  had  tried  to  sell  them  machines  for  the 
business  when  they  had  already  bought  all  that  were 
necessary.  He  was  quite  sure  it  was  Mr.  Rosenthal 
who  had  bribed  the  thieves  to  hold  their  tongues,  when 
any  one  of  them  could  have  cleared  Jacob  in  a  mo- 


44  MENDEL 


ment.  And  Golda  believed  that  it  was  Mr.  Rosenthal 
and  dreamed  of  unattainable  acts  of  revenge. 

Mendel  used  to  listen  to  them  talking,  and  their  voices 
seemed  to  him  to  come  from  very  far  away.  The  up- 
heaval had  stunned  him,  had  destroyed  his  volition  and 
paralysed  his  dreams.  He  felt  as  though  a  tight  band 
were  fixed  round  his  head.  He  had  neither  desire  nor 
will.  The  world  could  do  as  it  liked  with  him.  If  the 
world  could  suddenly  invade  his  home  and  brand  its 
head  and  lawgiver  as  thief,  then  the  world  was  empty 
and  foolish  and  it  did  not  matter  what  happened.  It 
amazed  him  that  his  brothers  and  sisters  could  go  about 
as  usual :  that  Harry  could  come  home  and  talk  of  prize- 
fighters and  sit  writing  to  girls,  and  that  Issy  could  go 
out  to  meet  his  Rosa  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  It 
was  astonishing  that  his  mother  could  still  cook  ancf 
they  could  still  eat,  and  that  every  morning  Harry  could 
go  down  and  open  the  door  to  let  in  the  workpeople  to 
clatter  up  the  stairs.  .  .  .  And  Harry  disliked  getting  out 
of  bed  in  the  morning.  In  his  father's  absence  he  ven- 
tured to  apply  his  considerable  ingenuity  to  the  problem, 
and  rigged  up  a  wire  from  his  bed  to  the  knob  of  the 
front-door.  Nor  was  this  the  only  sign  of  the  removal 
of  the  centre  of  authority  from  the  family,  for  Issy  ac- 
tually brought  his  girl  Rosa  to  the  house  and  made  his 
mother  be  pleasant  to  her.  .  .  .  Golda  felt  that  her  chil- 
dren were  growing  beyond  her,  and  she  thought  it  was 
time  Issy  was  thinking  of  getting  married,  though  not 
to  Rosa,  whose  father  was  a  poor  cobbler  and  could 
give  her  no  money. 

At  regular  intervals  Golda  swallowed  down  her  dread 
of  the  busy  streets  and  went  to  Pentonville,  where 
through  the  bars  of  the  visitors'-room  Jacob  received 
her  report  and  gave  his  instructions.  He  decreed  against 


Rosa,  who  accordingly  was  forbidden  to  enter  the  house 
again.  He  had  orders  for  every  one  of  his  children  ex- 
cept Mendel,  as  to  whom  Golda  did  not  consult  him. 
Deep  in  her  inmost  heart  she  was  in  revolt  against 
her  husband,  for  she  had  begun  to  see  that  he  had  car- 
ried pride  to  the  point  of  folly,  and  all  her  hopes,  all 
her  dreams,  all  her  ambitions  were  centred  upon  her 
darling  boy.  Her  ambitions  were  not  worldly.  She 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  the  world,  and  did  not  believe 
three  parts  of  what  she  heard  of  it.  Only  she  longed 
for  him  to  escape  the  bitterness  and  bareness  that  had 
been  her  portion.  The  boy  was  so  beautiful  and  could 
be  so  gay  and  could  dance  so  lightly,  and  would  some- 
times be  so  tempestuous  and  masterful.  It  would  be  a 
sin  if  he  were  to  be  cramped  over  a  board  or  were  sent 
to  work  in  a  tailoring  shop.  She  herself  had  a  love  of 
flowers  and  of  moonlight  and  the  stars  shining  through 
the  smoky  sky,  and  she  would  sometimes  find  herself 
being  urged  to  the  use  of  strange  words,  which  would 
make  Mendel  raise  his  head  and  cock  his  ears  as  though 
he  were  listening  to  the  very  beat  of  her  heart.  To 
that  no  one  in  the  world  had  ever  listened,  and  her 
life  seemed  very  full  and  worthy  when  Mendel  in  his 
childish  fashion  was  awake  to  it.  ...  Pentonville 
seemed  to  suit  Jacob.  He  looked  almost  fat  and  said 
the  cocoa  was  very  good. 

The  time  came  for  Mendel  to  leave  school  and  Issy 
said  he  had  better  be  taken  into  the  workshop.  Harry 
wanted  him  in  the  timber-yard  in  which  he  loafed  away 
his  days.  Abramovich  was  for  getting  Mr.  Jacobson  to 
take  him  into  his  office,  for  Mr.  Jacobson  never  failed 
to  ask  after  the  boy  who  painted  the  pictures.  Now  it 
so  happened  that  Mendel  had  found  a  bookshop,  outside 
which  he  had  discovered  a  life  of  W.  P.  Frith,  R.A. 


46  MENDEL 

In  daily  visits  over  a  period  of  three  weeks  he  had  read 
it  from  cover  to  cover,  the  story  of  a  poor  boy  who 
had  become  an  artist,  rising  to  such  fame  that  he  had 
painted  the  portrait  of  the  Queen.  There  it  was  in 
print,  and  must  be  true.  Mr.  Jacobson's  boy  was  only 
in  a  story,  but  here  it  wras  set  down  in  a  book,  with 
reproductions  of  the  artist's  wonderful  pictures — "The 
Railway  Station,"  "Derby  Day."  The  book  said  they 
were  wonderful.  The  book  spoke  with  reverence  and 
enthusiasm  of  pictures  and  the  men  who  painted  them. 

With  tremulous  excitement  he  secretly  produced  his 
box  of  paints  again,  and  squeezed  out  the  colours  on 
to  the  plate  he  used  for  a  palette.  He  adored  the  col- 
ours and  amused  himself  with  painting  smooth  strips  of 
blue,  yellow,  green,  red,  orange,  grey,  for  the  sheer  de- 
light of  handling  the  delicious  stuff.  It  was  a  new  pleas- 
ure, the  joy  of  colours  in  themselves  without  reference 
to  any  object,  or  any  feeling  inside  himself  except  this 
simple  thrilling  delight.  He  could  forget  everything  in 
it,  for  it  was  his  first  taste  of  childish  glee.  Nothing 
would  ever  be  the  same  again.  Nothing  could  ever 
again  so  oppress  and  overwhelm  him  as  distasteful  and 
even  pleasant  things  had  done  in  the  past.  He  would  be 
an  artist,  a  wonderful  artist,  like  W.  P.  Frith,  R.A. 

So  when  he  was  called  into  the  kitchen  one  night  and 
they  told  him  he  was  to  go  into  Mr.  Jacobson's  office, 
he  looked  as  though  their  words  had  no  meaning  for 
him,  and  he  said : — 

"I  want  to  be  an  artist." 

An  artist?  Nobody  knew  quite  what  that  meant. 
Golda  thought  it  meant  painting  pictures,  but  she  could 
not  imagine  a  man  devoting  all  his  time  to  it — a  child's 
pastime. 

"He  means  the  drawing!"  said  Abramovich.     "I  had 


PRISON  47 

a  friend  at  home  who  used  to  paint  the  flowers  on  the 
cups." 

"I'm  going  to  be  an  artist,"  said  Mendel. 

"But  you've  got  to  make  your  money  like  everybody 
else,"  replied  Issy. 

Mendel  retorted  with  details  of  what  he  could  remem- 
ber of  the  career  of  his  idol.  Issy  said  that  was  a 
Christlicher  kop.  There  weren't  such  things  as  Jewish 
artists ;  whereon  Harry  threw  in  the  word  "Rubinstein." 
Asked  to  explain  what  he  meant,  he  did  not  know,  but 
had  just  remembered  the  name. 

Abramovich  said  he  thought  Rubinstein  was  a  con- 
ductor at  the  Opera,  and  there  were  Jewish  singers 
and  actors. 

"My  father,"  said  Harry,  "won't  hear  of  that.  He 
won't  have  a  son  of  his  making  a  public  show  of  him- 
self." 

Mendel  by  this  time  was  white  in  the  face,  and  his 
eyes  were  glaring  out  of  his  head.  He  knew  that  not 
one  of  them  had  understood  his  meaning,  and  he  felt 
that  Issy  was  bent  on  having  his  way  with  him.  He 
was  in  despair  at  his  helplessness,  and  at  last,  when 
he  could  endure  no  more,  he  flung  himself  down  on  the 
floor  and  howled.  Issy  lost  his  temper  with  him,  picked 
him  up,  and  carried  him,  kicking  and  biting,  upstairs, 
and  flung  him  on  his  bed. 

The  subject  was  dropped  for  a  time,  but  Mendel  re- 
fused to  eat,  or  to  sleep,  or  to  leave  the  house.  He 
was  afraid  that  if  he  put  his  nose  outside  the  door 
Abramovich  would  pounce  on  him  and  drag  him  off  to 
Mr.  Jacobson's  office. 

However,  the  matter  could  not  be  postponed  for  long, 
because  money  was  very  scarce  and  the  boy  must  be 
put  into  the  way  of  providing  for  himself.  Golda 


48  MENDEL 


asked  Abramovich  to  find  out  what  an  artist  was  and 
how  much  a  week  could  be  made  at  the  trade.  Abramo- 
vich came  in  one  evening  with  a  note-book  full  of  facts 
and  figures.  He  had  read  of  a  picture  being  sold  for 
tens  of  thousands  of  pounds,  and  this  had  made  a  great 
impression  on  him.  Mendel  was  called  down  from  the 
room  in  which  he  had  exiled  himself. 

"Well?"  said  Abramovich  kindly.  "So  you  want  to 
be  an  artist?  But  how?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  shall  paint  pictures." 

"But  who  will  feed  you?  Who  will  buy  you  paints, 
brushes  ?" 

"I  shall  sell  my  pictures." 

"Where,  then?     How?" 

"To  the  shops." 

"Where  are  the  shops?  Tell  me  of  any  shop  near 
here,  for  I  don't  know  a  single  one." 

Again  Mendel  felt  that  they  were  too  clever  for  him, 
and  he  was  on  the  brink  of  another  fit  of  despair  when, 
fortunately  for  him,  Mr.  Macalister,  a  commercial  trav- 
eller in  furs,  came  in.  When  he  was  in  London  he 
made  a  point  of  calling  on  the  Kiihlers,  whom  he  liked, 
much  as  he  liked  strong  drink.  He  was  a  man  of  some 
attainments,  a  student  of  Edinburgh,  who  had  found 
the  ordinary  walks  and  the  ordinary  people  of  life  too 
tame  for  his  chaotic  and  vigorous  temper,  and  he  went 
from  place  to  place  collecting  just  such  strange  people 
as  these  Polacks,  as  he  used  to  call  them.  He  looked 
for  passion  in  men  and  women,  and  accepted  it  grate- 
fully and  even  greedily  wherever  he  found  it.  ...  He 
had  red  hair  and  a  complexion  like  a  white-heart  cherry, 
with  little  twinkling  eyes  as  blue  as  forget-me-nots. 

He  kindled  at  once  to  the  passion  with  which  Mendel 
was  bursting,  stooped  over  Golda's  hand  and  kissed  it 


PRISON  49 

— for  he  knew  that  was  how  foreigners  greeted  a  lady — • 
and  then  he  sat  heavily  waiting  for  the  situation  to  be 
explained  to  him.    Mendel  instinctively  appealed  to  him. 
.  .  .  Oh  yes!  he  knew  what  an  artist  was,  and  some 
painters  had  made  tidy  fortunes,  though  they  were  not 
the  best  of  them.    There  were  Reynolds,  and  Lawrence, 
and  Raeburn,  and  Landseer,  and  some  young  fellows  at      / 
Glasgow,  and  Michael  Angelo — a  tidy  lot,  indeed.    Never    Y 
a  Jew,  that  he  had  heard  of. 

"I  told  you  so!"  said  Abramovich. 

Golda  showed  Mr.  Macalister  the  boy's  pictures,  and 
he  was  genuinely  impressed,  especially  by  a  picture  of 
three  oranges  in  a  basket. 

"It's  not,"  he  said,  "that  they  make  you  want  to  eat 
them,  as  that  they  make  you  look  at  them  as  you  look 
at  oranges.  I'll  look  closer  at  every  orange  I  see  now. 
That's  talent.  Yes.  That's  talent.  Aye." 

Mendel  was  so  grateful  to  him  that  he  forgot  the 
others  and  began  to  point  out  to  him  how  well  the  or- 
anges were  painted,  with  all  their  fleshiness  and  rotundity 
brought  out.  And  very  soon  they  were  all  laughing  at 
him,  and  that  made  the  meeting  happier. 

Mr.  Macalister  explained  that  in  old  days  artists  used 
to  take  boys  into  their  studios,  but  that  now  there  were 
Schools  of  Art  where  only  very  talented  people  could 
survive.  He  certainly  thought  that  Mendel  ought  to 
be  given  a  chance,  and  if  it  were  a  question  of  money, 
he,  poor  though  he  was,  would  be  only  too  glad  to  help. 
Golda  would  not  hear  of  that,  and  Abramovich  pro- 
tested that,  in  an  unhappy  time  like  this,  he  regarded 
himself  as  the  representative  of  his  unfortunate  friend. 

The  corner  was  turned.  Feeling  was  now  all  with 
Mendel,  and  he  went  to  bed  singing  in  head  and  heart: 
"I'm  an  artist!  I'm  an  artist!  I'm  an  artist!" 


50  MENDEL 


So  the  ball  was  set  rolling.  Jacob,  seen  behind  the 
bars,  raised  no  objection.  He  had  had  time  to  think, 
and,  to  the  extent  of  his  capacity,  availed  himself  of  it. 
When  he  was  told  that  his  youngest  son  wanted  to  be 
an  artist  and  wept  at  the  suggestion  of  anything  else, 
he  thought:  "Who  am  I  to  say  'Yea'  or  'Nay'?"  and 
/  he  said  "Yea."  "Let  the  boy  have  a  little  happiness 
while  he  may,  for  the  Christians  are  very  powerful  and 
will  take  all  that  he  cherishes  from  him." 

The  question  of  ways  and  means  was  considered,  and 
here  Abe  Moscowitsch  took  charge.  His  business  had 
prospered  during  his  enforced  absence,  and  his  bank- 
ruptcy had  been  very  profitable.  He  was  a  decent  man, 
and  anxious  to  make  amends  to  his  young  wife  and 
her  family  for  the  trouble  his  adventurousness  had 
brought  on  them.  To  please  her  he  took  a  new  house 
with  bow-windows  and  a  garage,  and  to  please  them 
he  jumped  at  the  opportunity  of  helping  Mendel,  and 
offered  to  pay  his  fees  at  a  School  of  Art.  When  the 
boy  heard  this  he  ran  to  his  brother-in-law's  office  and, 
before  all  his  workmen,  flung  his  arms  round  his  neck  and 
embraced  him. 

"That'll  do.  That'll  do,"  said  Moscowitsch.  "Don't 
forget  us  if  you're  a  rich  man  before  I  am." 

"I  shall  never  leave  home,"  said  Mendel.  "I  shall 
never  marry.  I  shall  live  all  my  days  with  my  mother, 
painting." 

There  arose  the  difficulty  that  no  one  had  ever  heard 
of  a  School  of  Art.  Mr.  Macalister  was  deputed  to 
look  into  the  matter.  He  inquired,  and  was  recom- 
mended to  the  Polytechnic  as  being  cheap  and  good, 
and  the  Polytechnic  was  decided  on. 

Mr.  Kuit  came  in  at  the  tail  of  all  this  excitement, 
and  added  to  it  by  saying  that  he  was  just  off  to  Amer- 


PRISON  51 

ica,  first-class  by  the  Cunard  Line,  for  he  was  going  to 
start  in  style,  live  in  style,  and  come  back  in  style.  He 
was  delighted  to  hear  of  the  brilliant  future  opening 
up  before  Mendel,  and  told  wonderful  stories  of  famous 
pictures  that  had  been  stolen,  cut  out  of  their  frames  and 
taken  away  under  the  very  noses  of  the  owners.  He  was 
wonderfully  overdressed,  not  loudly  or  vulgarly,  but 
through  his  eagerness  to  be  and  to  look  first-class.  He 
produced  a  pack  of  cards  and  showed  how  he  could 
shuffle  them  to  suit  himself,  and  three  times  out  of  five, 
through  the  fineness  of  the  touch,  he  could  "spot"  a  card. 
He  was  a  wonderful  man.  The  Kiihlers  gaped  at  him, 
and  Moscowitsch,  in  emulation,  was  led  on  to  brag  of 
his  smartness  in  business,  and  how  he  had  thrice  burned 
down  his  timber-yard  and  made  the  insurance  people 
pay  up.  Yet,  though  he  warmed  up  as  he  boasted,  he 
lacked  the  magic  of  Mr.  Kuit  and  could  not  conceal  the 
meanness  of  his  deeds  behind  their  glamour.  He  lum- 
bered along  like  a  great  bear  behind  Mr.  Kuit,  and 
was  vexed  because  he  could  not  overtake  him,  and  when 
the  glittering  little  Jew,  who  seemed  more  magician  than 
thief,  said  he  would  give  Mendel  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
for  his  entry  into  the  world  of  art,  Moscowitsch  prom- 
ised to  provide  a  new  pair  of  boots.  Mr.  Kuit  countered 
with  two  new  hats,  Moscowitsch  with  underclothes.  On 
they  went  in  competition  until  Mendel  was  magnificently 
equipped,  and  at  last  Moscowitsch  laid  two  new  sov- 
ereigns on  the  table  and  said  they  were  for  the  boy's 
pocket-money.  Not  to  be  outdone,  Mr.  Kuit  produced  a 
five-pound  note  and  gave  it  to  Golda  to  be  put  into  the 
Post  Office  Savings  Bank. 

In  her  inmost  heart  Golda  was  alarmed.  For  the 
first  time  she  began  to  realise  the  vast  powerful  London 
with  which  she  was  surrounded.  At  home,  in  Austria, 


52  MENDEL 


people  stole  because  they  were  poor,  because  they  were 
starving.  She  herself  had  often  sent  Harry  and  Issy 
out  into  the  market  with  a  sack  and  a  spiked  stick  with 
which  to  pick  up  potatoes  and  cabbages  and  bread,  but 
here  the  old  simplicity  was  lacking.  The  swagger  and 
the  magnitude  of  Mr.  Kuit's  operations  and  her  son-in- 
law's  frauds  alarmed  her,  and  she  felt  that  no  good 
could  come  of  it.  They  belonged  to  some  power  which 
moved  too  fast  for  her,  and  it  was  being  invoked  for 
Mendel,  her  youngest-born,  her  treasure.  Truly  it  was  a 
black  day  that  took  Jacob  from  her.  Where  he  was, 
there  was  simplicity.  Everything  was  kept  in  its  place 
when  he  was  in  authority.  Everything  was  kept  down 
on  the  earth.  There  was  the  good  smell  of  the  earth 
in  all  his  dealings,  all  his  emotions.  Never  in  him  was 
the  easy  fantastic  excitement  of  Kuit  and  Moscowitsch. 
.  .  .  They  were  mad.  Surely  they  were  mad.  Their 
excitement  infected  everybody.  Golda  could  feel  it  creep- 
ing in  her  veins  like  a  poison.  It  came  from  the  world 
to  which  these  men  belonged,  the  world  of  prison.  That 
one  word  expressed  it  all  for  Golda.  She  had  only  been 
out  into  it  to  go  to  the  prison,  and  to  her  that  seemed 
to  be  the  cold  empty  centre  of  it  all.  The  bustle  and 
glitter  of  the  streets  led  to  the  prison,  and  she  had 
always  to  fight  to  get  back  into  her  own  life,  where 
things  were  simple  and  definite — ugly,  maybe — but  clear 
and  actual.  .  .  .  And  now  into  that  world  of  hectic  ex- 
citement playing  about  the  prison  and  about  Mendel  was 
to  go,  to  be  she  knew  not  what,  to  learn  to  play  with 
brushes  and  colours,  to  practise  tricks  which  seemed 
to  her  not  essentially  different  from  Mr.  Kuit's  sleight 
with  the  cards.  She  was  sure  no  good  could  come  of  it ; 
but  for  the  present  the  boy  had  his  happiness,  and  to 
that  she  yielded. 


CHAPTER    IV 


FIRST    LOVE 


FOR  Mendel  every  day  became  romantic,  though"  he 
suffered  tortures  of  shyness  and  used  to  bolt  like  a 
rabbit  through  the  doors  of  the  Polytechnic,  rush  up- 
stairs to  his  easel,  and  never  raise  his  eyes  from  it  ex- 
cept to  gaze  at  the  objects  placed  before  him.  He  worked 
in  a  frenzy,  convinced  that  it  was  his  business  to  translate 
the  object  on  to  the  canvas.  When  he  had  done  that 
he  felt  that  the  object  had  no  further  existence.  It 
ought  to  vanish  as  completely  as  his  consuming  interest 
in  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  never  did  vanish,  but  it 
was  lost  in  the  praises  of  Mr.  Sivwright,  and  the  young 
women  and  old  ladies  who  attended  the  class.  The  first 
task  set  the  class  after  he  joined  it  was  a  ginger-beer 
bottle,  of  which  his  rendering  was  declared  to  be  a 
marvel,  even  to  the  high  light  on  the  marble  in  the  neclc 
of  the  bottle. 

He  was  rather  small  for  his  age  and  was  almost  ab- 
surdly beautiful,  with  his  curly  hair,  round  Austrian 
head,  and  amusing  pricked  ears.  His  eyes  were  set 
very  wide  apart.  They  were  blue.  His  nose  was 
straight,  and  very  slightly  tip-tilted,  and  his  lips  were  as 
delicately  modelled  as  the  petals  of  a  rose.  They  were 
always  tremulous  as  he  shrank  under  the  vivid  impres- 
sions that  poured  in  on  him  in  bewildering  profusion. 

53 


54  MENDEL 


He  began  to  grow  physically  and  spiritually,  though  not 
at  all  mentally,  and  he  lived  in  a  state  of  bewilderment, 
retaining  shrewdness  enough  to  cling  to  the  necessary 
plain  fact  that  he  was  at  the  school  to  be  a  success,  for 
if  he  failed  he  would  sink  back  into  the  already  detest- 
able world  inhabited  by  Issy  and  Harry. 

He  created  quite  a  stir  at  the  school.  Mr.  Sivwright, 
a  Lancashire  Scotsman,  whose  youthful  revolt  against 
commerce  and  grime  had  carried  him  in  the  direction 
of  art  only  so  far  as  the  municipal  school,  said  he  was 
an  infant  prodigy  and  made  a  show  of  him.  To  Mendel's 
disgust  Mr.  Sivwright  assured  the  other  pupils  that 
he  was  a  Pole.  This  was  his  first  intimation  that  there 
was,  in  the  splendid  free  Christian  world,  a  prejudice 
against  Jews.  He  was  rather  shocked  and  disgusted, 
for  never  in  his  life  had  he  found  occasion  to  call  any- 
thing by  other  than  its  right  name.  It  took  him  weeks 
to  conquer  his  shyness  sufficiently  to  protest. 

"I  am  a  Jew,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Sivwright.  "Why  do 
you  call  me  a  Pole?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Sivwright,  "there's  Chopin,  you 
know,  and  Paderewski,  don't  you  know,  and  Kosciusko, 
and  the  Jews  don't  stand  for  anything  but  money.  And, 
after  all,  you  do  come  from  Poland." 

"But  I  am  a  Jew." 

"You  don't  look  it,  and  there's  some  swing  about 
being  a  Pole.  There's  no  swing  about  being  a  Jew. 
It  stops  dead,  you  know.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but 
it  stops  dead." 

The  words  frightened  Mendel.  How  awful  it  would 
be  if  he  were  to  stop  dead,  to  reach  the  Polytechnic 
and  to  go  no  further! 

He  was  soon  taken  beyond  the  Polytechnic,  for  Mr. 
Sivwright  led  him  to  the  National  Gallery  and  showed 


FIRST  LOVE  55 


him  the  treasures  there.  The  boy  was  at  once  prostrate 
before  Greuze.  Ah!  there  were  softness,  tenderness, 
charm :  all  that  he  had  lacked  and  longed  for.  It  was  in 
vain  that  Mr.  Sivwright  took  him  to  the  Van  Eycks  and 
the  Teniers  and  the  Franz  Hals,  striking  an  attitude  and 
saying:  "Fine!  Dramatic!  That's  the  real  stuff!"  The 
boy  would  return  to  his  Greuze  and  pour  out  on  the 
pretty  maidens  all  the  longings  for  emotion  with  which 
he  was  filled,  and  the  yearning  seemed  to  him  to  be 
the  irresistible  torrent  of  art  which  carried  those  who 
felt  it  to  the  pinnacles  of  fame.  .  .  .  Yet  he  knew  that 
Mr.  Sivwright  was  a  shoddy  failure  of  a  man,  and  he 
knew  that  Mr.  Sivwright' s  ecstasies  were  forced  and  had 
small  connection  with  the  pictures  before  him.  He  also 
knew  that  he  had  not  the  least  desire  to  paint  like 
Greuze,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  fascination  of  the 
pretty  maidens  and  the  gush  of  feeling  he  had  in  front 
of  them.  The  Italians  he  did  not  understand  and  Ve- 
lasquez and  El  Greco  repelled  him.  Also,  the  pictures  as 
a  whole  excited  him  so  that  they  ran  into  each  other 
and  he  could  not  extricate  them,  and  Greuze  became  his 
stand-by.  He  felt  safe  with  Greuze. 

Every  day  he  used  to  go  home  and  tell  his  mother 
of  the  day's  doings,  from  the  moment  when  he  mounted 
the  bus  in  the  morning  to  the  time  when  he  walked  home 
in  the  evening.  He  gave  her  minute  accounts  of  all  the 
people  in  the  class,  of  the  cheap  restaurant  where  he 
had  lunch,  of  the  marvels  of  the  streets :  the  old  women 
selling  flowers  at  Oxford  Circus;  the  gorgeous  shop- 
windows;  the  illuminated  signs  and  advertisements, 
green,  red,  and  yellow;  the  theatres;  the  posters  of  the 
comic  men  outside  the  music-halls ;  the  rich  people  in  their 
motor-cars;  the  marvellous  ladies  in  their  silks  and  their 
furs;  the  poor  men  selling  matches;  the  scarlet  soldiers 


56  MENDEL 


and  blue  sailors;  the  big  policemen  who  stopped  the 
traffic  with  their  white  hands;  the  awful,  endless  deso- 
lation of  Portland  Place,  with  trees — actually  trees — 
at  the  end  of  it;  the  whirl,  the  glitter,  the  roar,  the 
splendour  of  London.  And  he  used  to  mimic  for  her 
the  strange  people  he  saw,  the  mincing  ladies  and  the 
lordly  shopwalkers,  the  tittering  girls  and  the  men  work- 
ing in  the  streets.  The  more  excited  he  was  the  more 
depressed  was  Golda.  What  was  it  all  for?  Why  could 
not  people  live  a  decent  quiet  life?  Why  was  all  this 
whirligig  revolving  round  the  prison?  .  .  .  But  she 
smiled  and  laughed  and  applauded  him,  and  believed 
him  when  he  said  none  of  the  Christians  could  draw  as 
well  as  he. 

He  began  to  win  prizes.  It  became  his  whole  object 
to  beat  the  Christians.  What  they  told  him  to  paint 
he  would  paint  better  than  any  of  them.  And  by  sheer 
will  and  concentration  he  succeeded. 

Mr.  Sivwright  said  there  was  no  holding  him,  and 
very  soon  declared  he  had  nothing  more  to  learn. 

This  was  taken  by  Mendel  and  his  family  to  mean 
that  he  was  now  an  artist.  In  all  good  faith  he  es- 
tablished himself  in  a  room  below  the  workshop  at  home, 
called  it  his  studio,  and  set  to  work.  For  a  few  months 
he  painted  apples,  fish,  oranges,  portraits  of  his  mother, 
brothers,  and  sisters,  and  for  a  time  was  able  to  sell 
them  among  his  acquaintance.  He  had  one  or  two  com- 
missions for  portraits  and  could  always  make  a  few 
shillings  by  painting  from  photographs.  But  apprecia- 
tion of  art  among  his  own  people  was  limited;  he  soon 
came  to  an  end  of  it,  and  there  was  that  other  world 
calling  to  him.  Art  lay  beyond  that  other  world.  He 
j  felt  sure  of  that.  It  lay  beyond  Mr.  Sivwright.  If  he 
\  stayed  among  his  own  people  he  would  stop  dead;  for 


FIRST  LOVE  57 


he  knew  now  that  it  was  true  that  the  Jews  stopped 
dead. 

And  then  to  his  horror  he  stopped.  For  no  reason 
at  all  his  skill,  his  enthusiasm,  his  eagerness  left  him. 
He  forced  himself  to  paint,  transferred  innumerable 
idiotic  faces  from  photographs  to  cigar-box  lids,  made 
his  mother  neglect  her  work  to  sit  to  him,  bribed  Lotte 
to  be  his  model,  but  hated  and  loathed  everything  that 
he  did.  He  was  listless,  sometimes  feverish,  sometimes 
leaden  and  cold.  Often  he  thought  he  was  going  to 
die — to  die  before  anything  had  happened,  before  any- 
thing had  emerged  from  the  chaos  of  his  painful  vivid 
impressions. 

To  make  things  worse,  his  father  came  home  and  said 
that  he  would  give  him  six  months  in  which  to  make 
his  living,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  if  he  had  failed, 
he  would  have  to  go  into  the  workshop. 

He  felt  hopeless.  He  went  to  see  Mr.  Sivwright  and 
poured  out  his  woes  to  him,  who  wrote  a  letter  to  Jacob 
saying  that  his  son  was  a  genius  and  would  be  one  of 
the  greatest  of  painters.  Jacob  said :  "What  is  a  genius  ? 
I  do  not  know.  I  know  what  a  man  is,  and  a  man  works 
for  his  living.  In  six  months,  if  you  can  make  fifteen 
shillings  a  week  I  will  believe  in  this  painting.  If  not, 
what  is  there  to  believe?  What  will  you  do  when  you 
are  to  marry,  heh  ?  Tell  me  that.  Will  your  little  tubes 
of  paint  keep  a  wife,  heh?  Tell  me  that." 

Mendel  could  say  nothing.  He  could  do  nothing.  He 
gave  up  even  trying  to  paint,  for  he  might  as  well  have 
played  with  mud-pies.  He  borrowed  money  from  his 
brothers  and  prowled  about  the  streets,  and  went  to  the 
National  Gallery.  Greuze  meant  nothing  to  him  now. 
He  began  to  feel,  very  faintly,  the  force  of  Michael 
Angelo,  but  the  rest  only  filled  him  with  despair.  He 


58  MENDEL 


knew  nothing — nothing  at  all.  He  could  not  even  be- 
gin to  see  how  the  pictures  were  painted.  They  were 
miraculous  and  detestable.  ...  He  went  home  and  com- 
forted himself  with  a  little  picture  of  some  apples  on  a 
plate.  He  had  painted  it  two  years  before  in  an  ecstasy 
— a  thrilling  love  for  the  form,  the  colour,  the  texture 
of  the  fruit  and  the  china.  It  was  good.  He  knew  it 
was  good,  but  he  knew  he  could  do  nothing  like  it  now 
— never  again,  perhaps. 

And  how  disgusting  the  streets  had  become!  Such 
a  litter,  such  a  noise,  such  aimless,  ugly  people!  He 
could  understand  his  mother's  horror  of  them.  Ah !  she 
never  failed  him.  To  her  his  words  were  always  music, 
his  presence  was  always  light.  Half-dead  and  miserable 
as  he  was,  she  could  know  and  love  the  aching 'heart 
of  him  that  lived  so  furiously  behind  all  the  death  and 
the  misery  and  the  ashes  of  young  hopes  that  crusted 
him.  She  was  like  the  sky  and  the  trees.  She  was  like 
the  young  grass  springing  and  waving  so  delicately  in 
the  wind.  She  was  like  the  water  and  the  rolling  hills. 
.  .  .  He  had  discovered  these  things  at  Hampstead, 
whither  he  had  gone  out  of  sheer  aimlessness.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  Tube,  and  one  day,  with  a  shilling  bor- 
rowed from  Harry,  it  seemed  appropriate  to  him  to 
plunge  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  The  oppression 
of  the  air,  the  roar  of  the  train,  the  flash  of  the  sta- 
tions as  he  moved  through  them,  suited  his  mood,  fan- 
tastic and  futile.  He  got  out  at  Hampstead. 

It  was  his  first  sight  of  the  country.  He  could  hardly 
move  at  first  for  emotion.  He  found  himself  laughing, 
and  he  stooped  and  touched  the  grass  tenderly,  almost 
timidly,  as  though  he  were  afraid  of  hurting  it.  He  was 
fearful  at  first  of  walking  on  it,  but  that  seemed  to  him 
childish,  and  he  strode  along  with  his  quick,  light-footed 


FIRST  LOVE  59 


stride  and  lost  himself  in  the  willow  groves.  He  made 
a  posy  of  wild-flowers  and  took  them  back  to  his  mother, 
carrying  them  unashamedly  in  his  hand,  entirely  oblivi- 
ous of  the  smiles  of  the  passers-by.  He  knew  he  could 
not  tell  his  mother  of  the  happiness  of  that  day,  and 
the  flowers  could  say  more  than  any  words. 

Yet  the  happiness  only  made  his  misery  more  acute. 
He  suffered  terribly  from  the  pious  narrowness  of  his 
home,  the  restricted,  cramped  life  of  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  who  seemed  to  him  to  be  stealing  such  life  as 
they  had  from  the  religious  observances  to  which  they 
were  bound  by  their  father's  rigid  will.  Prayers  at 
home,  prayers  in  the  synagogue :  the  dreadful  monotony 
of  the  home,  of  the  talk,  of  the  squabbles :  human  life 
forced  to  be  as  dull  as  that  of  the  God  who  no  longer 
interfered  in  human  life.  .  .  .  There  was  a  tragedy  in 
the  street.  There  had  been  a  scandal.  A  young  Rabbi, 
a  gloriously  handsome  creature,  who  sang  in  the  syna- 
gogue, had  fallen  in  love  with  a  little  girl  of  fourteen 
who  lived  opposite  the  Kiihlers.  Golda  had  watched  the 
intrigue  from  her  windows,  and  she  said  it  was  the  girl's 
fault.  The  Rabbi  used  to  go  every  day  when  her  father 
was  out  and  she  used  to  let  him  in.  Jacob  wrote  to 
the  girl's  father,  and  the  Rabbi  left  his  lodgings  and 
took  a  room  over  a  little  restaurant  round  the  corner. 
He  had  his  dinner  and  went  upstairs  and  sat  up  all 
night  singing,  in  his  lovely  tenor  voice,  love  songs  and 
religious  chants,  so  sweetly  that  the  neighbours  threw 
their  windows  open  and  there  was  a  little  crowd  of  peo- 
ple in  the  street  listening.  And  in  the  morning  they 
found  him  with  his  throat  cut. 

"It  was  the  girl's  fault,"  said  Golda,  but  Jacob  said: 
"A  man  should  know  better  than  to  melt  when  a  little 
girl  practises  her  eyes  on  him." 


60  MENDEL 


This  tragedy  relaxed  the  nervous  strain  which  had 
been  set  up  in  Mendel  by  his  troubles.  New  forces  stirred 
in  him  which  often  made  him  hectic  and  light-headed. 
Women  changed  their  character  for  him.  They  were 
no  longer  soothing  ministrants,  but  creatures  charged 
with  a  mysterious,  a  maddening  charm.  He  trembled 
at  the  rustle  of  their  skirts  and  his  eyes  were  held 
riveted  by  their  movements.  He  was  suffocated  by  his 
new  curiosity  about  them. 

Sometimes,  in  his  despair  over  his  painting  and  the 
apparently  complete  disappearance  of  his  talent,  he  would 
fill  in  the  day  in  his  father's  workshop,  stretching  rabbit- 
skins  on  a  board.  Girls  and  men  worked  together,  busily, 
quietly,  dexterously,  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  for 
they  were  paid  by  the  piece  and  were  unwilling  to  waste 
time.  There  was  a  girl  who  had  just  been  taken  into 
the  workshop  to  learn  the  trade.  She  was  small  and 
plump  and  swarthy,  but  her  face  was  beautiful,  the  colour 
of  rich  old  ivory.  Her  eyes  were  black  and  golden 
from  a  ruddy  tinge  in  her  eyelashes.  Her  lips  were 
full  and  pouting,  and  she  had  long  blue-black  hair,  which 
she  was  always  tossing  back  over  her  shoulder.  When 
Mendel  was  there  she  rarely  took  her  eyes  off  him,  and 
even  when  her  head  was  bent  he  could  feel  that  she  was 
watching  him. 

He  waited  for  her  one  evening,  and  with  his  knees 
almost  knocking  together  he  asked  if  she  would  come 
to  his  studio  and  let  him  draw  her.  With  a  silly  giggle 
she  said  she  would  come,  and  she  ran  away  before  he 
could  get  out  another  word. 

The  next  evening  he  waited  in  his  studio  for  her,  but 
she  did  not  come.  So  again  the  next  and  the  next,  and 
it  was  a  whole  week  before  she  knocked  at  the  door. 


FIRST  LOVE  61 


He  pulled  her  in.    Neither  could  speak  a  word.    At  last 
he  stammered  out: 

"I — I  haven't  got  my  drawing  things  ready." 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said,  and  she  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"Are  you  cold?"  he  asked,  and  he  touched  her  neck. 

She  threw  up  her  head,  seemed  to  fall  towards  him, 
and  their  lips  met. 

Thrilling  and  sweet  were  the  hours  they  spent,  lost 
in  the  miracle  of  desire,  finding  themselves  again,  laugh- 
ing happily,  weeping  happily,  breaking  through  into  the 
enchanted  world,  where  the  few  words  that  either  knew 
had  lost  their  meaning.  They  were  hardly  conscious 
of  each  other.  They  knew  nothing  of  each  other,  and 
wished  to  know  nothing  except  the  lovely  mystery  they 
shared.  It  was  some  time  IDC  fore  he  even  knew  her 
name,  or  where  she  lived,  or  what  her  people  were. 
She  existed  for  him  only  in  the  enchantment  she  brought 
into  his  life,  in  the  release  from  his  burden,  in  the 
marvellous  free  life  of  the  body.  Royal  he  felt,  like 
a  king,  like  a  master,  and  she  was  a  willing  slave.  From 
home  she  would  steal  good  things  to  eat,  and  she  would 
sit  with  shining  eyes  watching  him  eat;  and  then  she 
would  wait  until  he  had  need  of  her.  .  .  .  Strange, 
silent,  happy  hours  they  spent,  free  together  in  the  dark 
little  room,  free  as  birds  in  their  nest,  happy  in  warm 
contact,  utterly  quiescent,  utterly  oblivious.  .  .  . 

Soon  their  silence  became  oppressive  to  them,  but 
neither  could  break  it,  so  far  beyond  their  years  and 
their  childish  minds  was  the  experience  in  which  they 
were  joined.  When  the  first  ecstasy  passed  and  they 
became  conscious  and  deliberate  in  their  delight,  they 
had  unhappy  moments,  to  escape  from  which  he  began 
to  draw  her.  Into  this  work  poured  a  strong  cool  pas- 
sion altogether  new  to  him,  a  joy  so  magnificent  that 


62  MENDEL 


he  would  forget  her  altogether.  He  was  tyrannical,  and 
kept  her  so  still  that  she  would  almost  weep  from  fa- 
tigue and  boredom.  But  he  was  not  satisfied  until  he 
had  drawn  every  line  of  her,  and  had  translated  her 
from  the  world  of  the  body  to  the  world  of  vision  and 
the  spirit.  He  knew  nothing  of  that.  He  was  only 
concerned  to  draw  her  as  he  had  drawn  the  ginger-beer 
bottle  at  the  Polytechnic.  Certain  parts  of  her  body — 
her  little  budding  breasts  and  her  round  arms — especially 
delighted  him,  and  he  drew  them  over  and  over  again. 
Her  head  he  drew  twenty  times,  and  he  found  a  shop  in 
the  West  End  where  he  could  sell  every  one.  And  each 
time  he  bought  her  a  little  present. 

She  was  not  satisfied  with  that.  She  wanted  to  dis- 
play him  to  her  friends.  She  wanted  him  to  take  her 
to  music-halls  and  to  join  the  parade  of  boys  and  girls. 
He  refused.  That  would  be  profanation.  He  and  she 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  world.  He  and  she  were  the 
world.  Outside  it  was  only  his  drawing.  He  could  not 
see  that  she  was  unable  to  share  it.  Did  he  not  draw 
her?  Did  he  dream  of  drawing  anything  but  her?  .  .  . 
To  go  from  that  to  restaurants,  the  lascivious  pleasantries 
of  the  streets,  the  garish  music-halls,  was  to  him  un- 
thinkable. 

She  said  he  cared  more  for  his  drawing  than  for 
her,  and  indeed  he  would  sometimes  draw  for  a  couple 
of  hours  and  then  kiss  her  almost  absent-mindedly,  just 
as  she  was  going.  He  was  so  happy  and  satisfied  and 
could  not  imagine  her  being  anything  less,  or  that  she 
might  wish  to  express  in  music-halls  and  "fun"  what  he 
expressed  in  his  work. 

He  felt  gloriously  confident,  and  naively  told  his 
mother  how  happy  he  was.  Everything  had  come  back. 


FIRST  LOVE  63 


He  could  draw  better  than  ever.  He  would  be  a  great 
artist. 

Once  more  he  took  to  painting  in  the  kitchen.  The 
studio  was  dedicated  to  the  girl,  Sara,  who  came  to 
him  in  spite  of  her  disappointment.  He  had  spoiled 
her  for  other  boys. 

He  painted  all  day  long  in  the  kitchen,  and  his  life 
became  ordered  and  regular.  He  went  for  a  walk  in 
the  morning,  then  worked  all  day  long  until  the  work- 
people began  to  clatter  downstairs,  when  he  would  pack 
up  his  paint-box  and  run  up  to  the  studio  to  wait  for 
Sara  to  come  tapping  softly  at  his  door. 

Golda  was  overjoyed  at  his  new  happiness  and  the 
budding  manhood  in  him,  but  she  knew  that  this  spring- 
time of  his  youth  could  not  be  without  a  cause.  She 
knew  that  he  was  in  love  and  was  fearful  of  conse- 
quences, and  dreaded  his  being  fatally  entangled.  She 
kept  watch  and  saw  Sara  stealthily  leave  the  house  hours 
after  the  other  workpeople  had  gone.  She  told  Jacob, 
and  Sara  was  dismissed  and  forbidden  ever  to  come 
near  the  house  again. 


CHAPTER   V 

A   TURNING-POINT 


A  T  first  Mendel  hardly  noticed  the  passing  of  Sara. 
•*•  ^-  He  waited  anxiously  for  her  to  come,  but  when 
she  never  appeared  he  went  on  working,  only  gradually 
to  discover  that  the  first  glorious  impulse  had  faded 
away.  However,  the  habit  of  regular  work  was  strong 
with  him,  and  he  could  go  on  like  a  carpenter  or  a 
mason  or  any  other  good  journeyman.  But  there  was 
no  one  to  buy  what  he  produced,  and  his  father  be- 
gan to  talk  gloomily  and  ominously  of  the  workshop. 

"Never!"  said  Mendel.  "If  I  am  not  a  great  artist 
by  the  time  I  am  twenty-three  I  will  come  and  work. 
If  I  have  done  nothing  by  the  time  I  am  twenty-three 
I  shall  know  that  I  am  no  good." 

"I  can  see  no  reason,"  said  Jacob,  "why  you  should 
not  work  like  any  other  man  and  paint  in  your  spare 
time.  Issy  is  a  good  dancer  in  his  spare  time,  and 
Harry  is  good  at  the  boxing.  Why  should  you  not' 
paint  in  your  spare  time  and  work  like  an  honest  man?" 

Mendel  turned  on  his  father  and  rent  him. 

"You  do  not  know  what  work  is.  You  work  with 
your  hands.  Yes.  But  do  you  ever  work  till  your  head 
swims,  and  your  eyes  ache  because  they  can  see  more 
inside  than  they  can  outside?  If  I  cannot  paint  I  shall 
die.  I  shall  be  like  a  bird  that  cannot  sing,  like  a 

64 


A  TURNING-POINT  65 

woman  that  has  no  child,  like  a  man  that  has  no  strength! 
I  tell  you  I  shall  die  if  I  cannot  paint." 

"Yes,  he  will  die,"  said  Golda.     "He  will  surely  die." 

"He  will  die  of  starvation  if  he  goes  on  painting," 
replied  Jacob. 

"And  if  you  had  not  been  able  to  sleep  you  would 
have  died  of  starvation  for  all  that  work  ever  did  for 
you,"  cried  Golda,  convinced  that  Mendel  was  speaking 
the  truth. 

Shortly  before  this  crisis  Mendel  had  discovered  a 
further  aspect  of  the  Christian  world.  A  good  young 
man  from  an  Oxford  settlement  had  heard  of  him  and 
had  sought  him  out.  This  young  man's  name  was  Ed- 
ward Tufnell.  He  was  the  son  of  a  rich  Northern  manu- 
facturer, and  he  believed  that  the  cultured  classes  owed 
something  to  the  masses.  He  believed  there  must  be 
mute,  inglorious  Miltons  in  the  slums,  and  that  they 
only  needed  fertilisation.  When,  therefore,  he  heard  of 
the  poor  boy  who  sat  in  his  mother's  kitchen  painting 
oranges  and  fish  and  onions,  he  was  excited  to  bring  the 
prodigy  within  reach  of  culture.  He  made  him  attend 
lectures  on  poetry  and  French  classes.  These  duties  gave 
Mendel  a  good  excuse  for  escaping  from  home  in  the 
evenings,  and  he  attended  the  classes,  but  hardly  un- 
derstood a  word  of  what  was  said.  He  liked  and 
admired  Edward  Tufnell,  who  was  very  nearly  what  he 
imagined  a  gentleman  to  be — generous  and  kind,  and 
quick  to  appreciate  the  human  quality  of  any  fellow- 
creature,  no  matter  what  his  outward  aspect  might  be. 
Edward  Tufnell  treated  Golda  exactly  as  he  would  have 
treated  an  elderly  duchess. 

To  Edward  Tufnell,  therefore,  Mendel  bore  his  dif- 
ficulty, and  Edward  took  infinite  pains  and  at  last, 
through  his  interest  with  the  Bishop  of  Stepney,  pro- 


66  MENDEL 


cured  him  a  situation  in  a  stained-glass  factory,  where 
he  was  set  to  trace  cartoons  of  the  Virgin  Mary  and 
S.  John  the  Baptist  and  other  figures  of  whom  he  had 
never  heard.  But,  though  he  had  never  heard  of  them, 
yet  he  understood  that  they  were  figures  worthy  of  re- 
spect, and  it  shocked  him  to  hear  the  workmen  say: 
"Billy,  chuck  us  down  another  Mary,"  or  "Jack,  heave 
up  that  there  J.  C,  .  .  ."  He  was  acutely  miserable. 
To  draw  without  impulse  or  delight  was  torture  to  him, 
and  he  could  not  put  pencil  to  paper  without  a  thrill  of 
eagerness  and  desire,  which  was  immediately  baffled  when 
his  pencil  had  to  follow  out  the  conventional  lines  of 
the  stained-glass  windows.  And  the  draughtsmen  with 
whom  he  worked  were  empty,  foul-mouthed  men,  who 
seemed  to  strive  to  give  the  impression  that  they  lived 
only  for  the  mean  pleasures  of  the  flesh.  They  knew 
nothing,  nothing  at  all,  and  he  hated  them. 

He  was  paid  five  shillings  a  week,  and  was  told  that 
if  he  behaved  himself,  by  the  time  he  was  twenty  or 
twenty-one  he  would  be  making  thirty  shillings  a  week. 
Jacob  was  very  pleased  with  this  prospect,  and  told  his 
unhappy  son  that  he  would  soon  settle  down  to  it,  and 
he  even  began  to  upbraid  him  for  not  painting  in  the 
evenings.  Mendel  could  not  touch  his  brushes.  He 
tried  hard  to  think  of  himself  as  an  ordinary  working 
boy,  and  he  endeavoured  to  pursue  the  pleasures  of  his 
kind.  He  went  with  Harry  to  boxing  matches  and 
joined  him  in  the  raffish  pleasures  of  the  streets,  which, 
however,  left  him  weary  and  disgusted.  He  had  known 
something  truer  and  finer,  and  he  could  not  help  a  little 
despising  Harry,  who  pursued  girls  as  game,  and  directly 
they  were  kindled  and  moved  towards  him  he  lost  interest 

them,  and,  indeed,  was  rather  horrified  by  them. 

Strange  in  contrast  was  Mendel's  relation  with  Ed- 


A  TURNING-POINT  67 

ward  Tufnell,  who  was  entirely  innocent  and  could  see 
nothing  in  his  protege  but  a  touching  sensitiveness  to 
beauty.  The  urchin  with  his  complete  and  unoffended 
knowledge  of  the  life  of  the  gutter  was  hidden  from  him. 
Edward  found,  and  was  rejoiced  to  find,  that  the  boy 
was  sensitive  to  intellectual  beauty  and  to  ideas.  He 
gave  him  poetry  to  read — Keats  and  the  odes  of  Milton 
— and  was  very  happy  to  explain  to  him  the  outlines  of 
Christianity  and  the  difference  that  the  coming  of  Christ 
had  made  to  the  world.  He  did  not  aim  at  making  a 
convert,  but  only  at  feeding  the  boy's  appetite  for  tender- 
ness and  kindness  and  all  fair  things.  Mendel  was  striv- 
ing most  loyally  to  be  resigned  to  his  horrible  fate,  and  / 
the  teachings  of  Christ  seemed  to  fortify  his  endeavour. 
When,  therefore,  he  asked  if  he  might  read  the  New 
Testament,  Edward  lent  it  to  him  without  misgiving. 

The  result  was  disastrous.  Mendel  pored  over  the 
book  and  it  seemed  to  let  light  into  his  darkness.  He 
read  of  the  conversion  of  S.  Paul  and  his  own  illumina- 
tion was  apparently  no  less  complete.  The  notion  of 
holding  out  the  other  cheek  appealed  to  him,  for  he  felt 
that  the  whole  world  was  his  enemy.  It  had  insulted  him 
with  five  shillings  a  week,  and  if  he  were  meek  it  would 
presently  add  another  five.  .  .  .  And  then  what  a  prospect 
it  opened  up  of  a  world  where  people  loved  each  other 
and  treated  each  other  kindly  and  lived  without  the  rasp- 
ing anger  and  suspicion  and  jealousy  that  filled  his  home. 

He  went  to  the  National  Gallery  and  began  to  un- 
derstand the  Italians.  He  would  become  a  Christian  and 
paint  Madonnas,  mothers  suckling  their  children,  with 
kindly  saints  like  Edward  Tufnell  looking  on.  Yet  the 
new  spirituality  jarred  with  his  life  at  home  and  was 
not  strong  enough  to  combat  it.  That  life  contained' 
a  quality  as  essential  to  him  as  air.  It  stank  in  his 


68  MENDEL 


nostrils,  but  it  was  the  food  of  his  spirit  and  he  could 
not,  though  his  new  enthusiasm  bade  him  do  it,  senti- 
mentalise his  relation  with  his  mother.  Her  relation  with 
his  father  forbade  it,  and  his  father  cast  a  shadow  over 
the  greater  life  illuminated  by  the  figure  of  Christ. 
Yet  because  of  the  pictures  he  could  not  abandon  the 
struggle,  and  he  tried  to  find  support  by  proselytising 
Harry.  That  roisterer  had  begun  to  find  his  life  very 
unsatisfying,  and  he  gulped  down  the  new  idea  simply 
because  it  was  new.  He  got  drunk  on  it,  refused  to 
go  to  the  synagogue,  and  performed  a  number  of  acts 
that  he  thought  Christian,  as  wasting  his  money  on  use- 
less and  hideous  presents  for  his  mother  and  sisters. 
Also  he  took  a  delight  in  talking  of  the  Messiah,  and 
ascribed  all  the  misfortunes  of  the  family  to  its  adher- 
ence to  an  exploded  faith. 

Jacob  was  furious.  This  soft  Christian  nonsense  was 
revolting  to  him. 

"Say  another  word,"  he  shouted,  "say  another  word 
and  I  turn  you  out  of  the  house.  Jeshua!  I  will  tell 
you.  In  America  it  has  been  proved,  absolutely  proved 
in  a  court  of  law,  that  this  Jeshua  was  nothing  better 
than  a  pimp.  It  was  proved  by  a  very  learned  Rabbi 
before  a  Christian  judge,  and  when  the  judge  saw  that 
it  was  proved  he  broke  down  and  wept  like  a  woman." 

"I've  only  your  word  for  it,"  said  Harry,  already 
rather  dashed. 

"I  tell  you  I've  seen  it  in  print.  If  you  like  I  will 
send  for  the  book  to  America." 

Harry  held  his  peace.  That  settled  it  for  him,  and 
even  Mendel  was  shaken  by  the  storm  his  Christian  in- 
clinations had  let  loose. 

"The  Christians  are  liars,"  said  Jacob.  "Every  one 
of  them  is  a  liar,  and  they  eat  filth." 


A  TURNING-POINT  69 

There  was  a  passion  of  belief  in  his  father  which 
Mendel  could  not  but  honour,  and  that  other  faith,  so 
far  as  he  knew,  was  held  but  mildly.  It  was  charming 
in  its  results,  but  its  spirit  was  unsatisfying  to  him  who 
had  been  bred  on  stronger  fare.  All  the  same,  his  atti- 
tude towards  his  father's  authority  was  changed.  His 
simple  acceptance  was  shaken,  and  he  was  in  revolt 
against  the  repression  of  his  dearest  desires  enjoined  by 
it.  His  tongue  was  loosed  and  he  began  to  talk  enthusi- 
astically to  Edward  Tufnell  about  his  ambitions. 

"I  beat  them  all  at  the  school,"  he  used  to  say,  "and 
I  would  never  let  anybody  beat  me.  I  can  see  more 
clearly  than  anybody.  I  can  see  colour  where  they 
can  see  none,  and  shadows  where  they  can  see  none.  And 
when  I  have  painted  them,  then  they  can  see  them." 

He  was  entirely  unconscious  in  his  egoism,  and  Ed- 
ward was  so  generous  a  creature  that  he  was  not  shocked 
or  offended  by  it.  He  was  a  Quaker  and  as  simple  in 
his  faith  as  a  peasant,  and  he  was  young  enough  to  know 
how  difficult  it  was  for  the  boy  to  expose  his  thoughts. 
After  he  had  listened  to  his  outpourings  he  would  lead 
the  boy  on  to  talk  of  his  experiences  at  the  stained-glass 
factory.  Mendel  had  a  wonderful  gift  of  vivid  narra- 
tion. Everything  was  so  real  to  him,  he  had  no  reason 
to  respect  anything  in  the  outside  world  unless  it  com- 
pelled the  homage  of  his  instinct,  and  in  his  broken 
Cockney  English  he  could  give  the  most  dramatic  de- 
scriptions of  everything  he  saw  and  did.  When  he  was 
engaged  upon  such  tales,  helping  them  out  with  wonder- 
ful mimicry,  he  had  no  shyness  and  laid  bare  his  feel- 
ings as  though  they  were  also  a  part  of  the  external 
scene. 

Edward  knew  nothing  at  all  about  painting,  but  he 
could  respond  to  quality  in  a  human  being,  and  he 


70  MENDEL 


recognised  that  here  was  no  ordinary  boy.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  rescue  him  from  his  surroundings,  sup- 
port him,  send  him  to  school.  But  what  a  Hell  that 
would  be  for  the  sensitive  foreigner  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  ruthless  force  of  an  ancient  tradition! 
Edward  himself  had  suffered  enough  from  being  such 
an  oddity  as  a  Quaker,  but  to  send  this  Jew,  who  had 
learned  nothing  and  had  none  but  his  natural  manners, 
to  a  Public  School  would  be  an  act  of  cruelty.  Be- 
sides, the  boy  would  not  hear  of  being  parted  from  his 
mother,  whom  he  was  never  tired  of  praising.  He  told 
Edward  quite  solemnly  that  his  mother  had  said  things 
far  more  beautiful  than  anything  in  Keats  or  Milton 
and  that  no  book  could  ever  have  held  anything  more 
moving  than  her  descriptions  of  the  life  at  home  in 
Austria,  with  the  Jews  in  their  gaberdines  with  their 
long  curls  hanging  by  their  ears,  and  the  foolish  peasants 
in  their  bright  clothes,  and  the  splendid  officers  who 
clapped  children  into  prison  if  they  splashed  their  great 
shining  boots  with  mud.  ...  As  he  listened  Edward  felt 
more  and  more  convinced  that  it  was  his  duty  not  to 
allow  this  rich  nature  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  grey 
squalor  of  the  slums.  He  had  begun  his  philanthropic 
work  believing  that  Oxford  had  much  to  give  to  the  poor, 
and  he  had  come  in  time  to  realise  that  the  world  of 
which  Oxford  was  the  romantic  symbol  stood  sorely  in 
need  of  much  that  the  poor  had  to  give.  Mendel  con- 
firmed and  strengthened  an  impression  which  had  for 
some  time  been  disturbing  Edward's  peace  of  mind.  He 
felt  that  if  he  could  help  the  boy  he  would  be  translating 
his  perception  into  action. 

He  discussed  the  matter  with  his  friends,  who  smiled 
at  his  solemnity.  "Dear  old  Edward"  was  always  a 
joke  to  them,  so  seriously  did  he  take  the  problems  with 


A  TURNING-POINT  71 

which  he  was  faced.  They  said  that,  of  course,  if  the 
boy  was  a  genius  he  would  find  his  way  out  and  would 
be  all  the  greater  for  the  struggle.  Edward  protested 
that  young  talent  was  easily  snuffed  out,  but  again  they 
laughed  and  said  that  if  it  were  so  then  it  was  no  great 
loss.  Edward  then  said  that  the  boy  had  a  fine  nature 
which  might  easily  be  crippled  by  evil  circumstances. 
That  they  refused  to  believe  either,  and  Edward  made 
no  progress  until  he  told  his  tale  to  a  rich  young  Jew 
who  had  lately  come  to  the  settlement.  This  young  man, 
Maurice  Birnbaum,  was  at  once  fired.  His  father  was 
a  member  of  a  committee  for  aiding  young  Jews  of 
talent.  With  Edward  he  swooped  down  on  the  Kuhlers 
in  his  motor-car,  and  Golda  showed  him  all  her  son's 
work,  from  the  watch  he  drew  at  the  age  of  three  to  f 
a  study  of  Sara's  breasts.  Birnbaum  knew  no  Yiddish,  \J 
and  Golda  scorned  a  Jew  who  could  not  speak  the  lan- 
guage of  his  race.  He  was  also  extremely  gauche  and 
talked  to  her  rather  in  the  manner  of  a  parliamentary 
candidate  canvassing  for  votes.  He  patronised  her  and 
told  her  that  her  son  had  talent,  but  that  she  must  not 
expect  Fortune  to  wait  on  him  immediately.  "A  Chris- 
tian Jew!"  said  Golda  scornfully  when  he  had  gone. 
"He  stinks  of  money  and  shell-fish.  If  you  are  going 
to  eat  pork,  eat  till  the  grease  runs  down  your  chin." 
And  she  had  a  sudden  horror  that  Mendel  might  grow 
like  that,  all  flesh  and  withered,  uneasy  spirit.  She  felt 
inclined  to  destroy  all  the  pictures,  and  when  Mendel 
came  in  she  told  him  of  her  visitor  and  of  her  alarm, 
and  he  reassured  her,  saying:  "What  I  am  I  will  al- 
ways be,  for  without  you  I  am  nothing.  ..."  It  was 
only  from  Mendel  that  Golda  had  such  sayings.  No 
one  else  ever  acknowledged  in  words  her  quality  or  her 
power  for  sweetness  in  their  lives,  and  she  was  terrified 


72  MENDEL 


at  the  thought  of  his  going.  The  big  motor-car  would 
come  and  take  him  and  all  his  pictures  away,  she  im- 
agined, and  he  would  be  swept  up  into  glittering  circles 
of  which  alone  he  was  worthy,  though  they  were  quite 
unworthy  of  him.  And  some  rich  woman  would  be 
enraptured  with  him,  and  she  would  take  him  to  her 
arms  and  her  bed,  and  he  would  be  lost  for  ever.  Men- 
del told  her  it  meant  nothing,  that  such  people  forgot 
those  who  were  poor  and  never  really  helped  them,  be- 
cause they  could  never  know  what  it  was  like  to  need 
help:  but  he  had  a  premonition  that  he  had  done  with 
the  stained-glass  factory.  He  took  up  his  brushes  again 
and  cleaned  them,  and  chattered  gaily  of  the  things  he 
would  do  when  the  motor-car  fetched  him  and  he  was 
asked  to  paint  the  portraits  of  lords  and  millionaires. 

Edward  inquired  further  of  Birnbaum,  and  he  brought 
Mendel  a  paper  to  fill  up,  stating  his  age,  circumstances, 
parentage,  etc.,  etc.  He  was  to  send  this,  with  a  letter, 
to  Sir  Julius  Fleischmann,  who  was  a  famous  financier 
and  connoisseur.  Edward  drafted  a  letter,  but  Mendel 
found  it  servile,  and  wrote  as  follows: — 

DEAR  SIR, — 

I  send  you  my  paper  filled  up.  My  father  is  a  poor  man 
and  I  wish  to  be  a  painter.  I  have  won  prizes  at  a  school, 
but  I  cannot  make  my  living  by  my  art.  I  am  not  asking 
for  charity.  I  am  only  asking  that  my  work  shall  be  judged. 
If  it  is  good  painting,  then  let  me  paint.  Give  me  my  oppor- 
tunity, please.  If  it  is  bad  painting,  then  it  is  no  great  mat- 
ter, and  I  will  go  on  until  I  can  paint  well,  and  then  I  will 
show  you  my  work  again.  If  money  is  given  me  I  will  pay 
every  penny  of  it  back  when  I  am  as  successful  as  I  shall 
be.  I  am  sending  three  drawings  and  two  paintings. 

Yours  faithfully, 

MENDEL  KUHLER. 


A  TURNING-POINT  73 

This  letter  was  sent  enclosed  in  a  parcel  made  up 
with  trembling  hands.  He  knew  that  the  great  moment 
had  come,  that  at  last  he  had  attained  the  desired  con- 
tact with  the  outside  world.  He  was  wildly  elated,  and 
had  fantastic  and  absurd  visions  of  Sir  Julius  himself 
driving  down  at  once  in  his  motor-car,  knocking  at  the 
door  and  saying :  "Does  Mr.  Mendel  Kiihler  live  here  ?" 
Then  he  would  enter  and  embrace  him  and  cry:  "You 
are  a  great  artist."  And  he  would  turn  to  Golda  and 
say:  "You  are  the  mother  of  a  great  artist.  You  shall 
no  longer  live  in  poverty."  And  he  would  sit  down  and 
write  a  cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds.  The  story  swelled 
and  swelled  like  a  balloon.  It  rose  and  soared  aloft  with 
Mendel  clinging  desperately  to  it.  But  every  now  and- 
then  it  came  swooping  down  to  earth  again,  and  then 
Mendel  would  imagine  his  drawings  and  pictures  being 
sent  back  without  a  word.  Elated  or  despondent,  he 
passed  through  life  in  a  dream,  and  was  hardly  conscious 
of  his  surroundings  either  at  the  factory  or  at  home. 

This  went  on  for  weeks,  during  which  he  composed 
letters  of  savage  insult  to  Sir  Julius,  to  Birnbaum,  and 
even  to  Edward  Tufnell,  telling  them  that  he  needed 
no  help,  that  he  was  a  Jewish  artist  and  would  stay 
among  the  Jews,  the  real  Jews,  those  who  kept  them- 
selves to  themselves  and  to  the  faith  of  their  fathers,  and 
had  no  truck  with  the  light  and  frivolous  world  out- 
side. But  he  tore  all  these  letters  up,  for  he  knew 
that  the  answer  he  desired  would  come. 

At  last  one  morning  there  was  a  note  for  him.  The 
secretary  of  the  committee  wrote  asking  him  to  take 
more  specimens  of  his  work  to  Mr.  Edgar  Froitzheim, 
the  famous  artist,  at  his  studio  in  Hampstead.  Mendel 
had  never  heard  of  Froitzheim,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
an  enormous  step  towards  fame  to  be  going  to  see  a 


74  MENDEL 


real  artist  in  a  real  studio.  He  felt  happier,  too,  at 
having  this  intermediary  appointed,  for  he  knew  that 
artists  always  knew  each  other  by  instinct  and  helped 
each  other  for  the  sake  of  the  work  they  loved. 

Golda  made  him  put  on  his  best  clothes,  and  washed 
him  and  brushed  his  hair.  He  packed  up  half  a  dozen 
drawings  and  his  picture  of  the  apples,  which  had  been 
too  precious  to  trust  to  the  post  or  to  Sir  Julius,  and 
he  set  out  for  Hampstead.  To  cool  his  excitement  he 
walked  across  the  Heath,  remembering  vividly  the  day 
when  he  had  first  seen  it,  and  again  it  seemed  to  him 
a  place  of  freedom  and  surpassing  loveliness,  the  sweet, 
comfortable  quality  of  the  grass  only  accentuated  by  the 
bare  patches  of  ground,  which  were  here  and  there  of  an 
amazing  colour,  purple  and  brown.  A  rain-cloud  came 
up  on  the  gusty  wind  and  shed  its  slanting  shower, 
and  its  shadow  fell  on  the  rounding  slopes.  He  became 
aware  of  the  form  of  the  Heath  beneath  its  verdure  and 
colour.  Between  himself  and  the  scene  he  felt  an  in- 
timacy, as  though  he  had  known  it  always  and  would 
always  know  it.  It  amused  him  and  filled  him  with  a 
pleasant  glee,  which,  when  it  passed,  left  him  shy  for 
the  encounter  with  the  famous  Froitzheim,  the  arbiter 
of  his  immediate  fortunes. 


CHAPTER   VI 

EDGAR    FROITZHEIM    AND   OTHERS 


VERY  bright  was  the  brass  on  Mr.  Froitzheim's  front 
door,  very  bright  the  face  of  the  smiling  maid  who 
opened  it.  Mendel  blushed  and  stammered  inaudibly. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  said  the  maid,  "and  I  will  ask 
Mr.  Froitzheim." 

She  left  Mendel  in  the  hall  and  disappeared.  This 
was  a  very  large  house,  marvellously  clean  and  light 
and  airy.  The  wallpaper  and  the  woodwork  were  white. 
On  the  stairs  was  a  brilliant  blue  carpet.  Through  the 
window  at  the  end  of  the  passage  were  seen  trees  and 
a  vast  panorama  of  London — roofs,  chimneys,  steeples, 
domes — under  a  shifting  pall  of  blue  smoke. 

The  maid  went  into  the  studio  and  told  Mr.  Froitzheim 
that  a  boy  was  waiting  for  him — a  boy  who  looked  like 
an  Italian.  She  thought  he  might  be  selling  images,  and 
he  had  a  package  under  his  arm.  Mr.  Froitzheim  told 
her  to  bring  the  visitor  in.  He  was  arranging  draperies, 
Persian  and  Indian  coats,  yellow  and  red  and  blue,  and 
he  did  not  look  up  when  Mendel  was  shown  in.  He  was 
a  little  dark  Jew,  neat  and  dapper  in  figure  and  very 
sprucely  dressed,  but  so  Oriental  that  he  looked  out  of 
place  in  Western  clothes.  But  that  impression  was  soon 
lost  in  Mendel's  awe  of  the  studio.  Here  was  a  place 
where  real  pictures  were  painted.  There  were  easels,  a 

75 


76  MENDEL 


table  full  of  paints,  an  etching  plant,  a  model's  throne, 
a  lay  figure,  pictures  on  the  walls,  stacks  of  pictures  be- 
hind the  door,  and  the  little  man  standing  there,  fingering 
the  silks,  was  a  real  artist. 

"Hullo,  boy!"  said  Mr.  Froitzheim. 

"M-Mendel  Kiihler." 

"Something  to  show  me,  eh?" 

"Ye-yes.     Pictures." 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was?" 

"Kiihler.    Mendel  Kiihler." 

"Oh  yes.  I  remember.  You  know  Maurice  Birn- 
baum?" 

"No." 

"Eh?  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  these?  Lovely,  eh? 
Bought  them  in  India.  You  should  go  there.  You  don't 
know  what  sunlight  is  until  you've  been  there — to  the 
East.  Ah,  the  East !  Fills  you  with  sunlight,  opens  your 
eyes  to  colour.  .  .  .  Persian  prints !  What  do  you  think 
of  these?" 

He  showed  Mendel  a  whole  series  of  exquisite  things 
which  moved  him  so  profoundly  that  he  forgot  alto- 
gether why  he  had  come  and  began  to  stammer  out  his 
rapture,  a  condition  of  delight  to  which  Mr.  Froitzheim 
was  so  unaccustomed  that  he  stepped  back  and  stared  at 
his  visitor.  There  was  a  glow  in  the  boy's  face  which 
gave  it  a  seraphic  expression.  Mr.  Froitzheim  tiptoed 
to  the  door  and  called,  "Edith!  Edith!"  And  his  wife 
came  rustling  in.  She  was  a  thin  little  woman  with  a 
friendly  smile  and  an  air  of  being  only  too  amiable  for 
a  world  that  needed  sadly  little  of  the  kindness  with 
which  she  was  bursting.  They  stood  by  the  door  and 
talked  in  whispers,  and  Mendel  was  brought  back  to 
earth  by  hearing  her  say,  "Poor  child!"  He  knew  she 
meant  himself,  and  his  inclination  was  to  fly  from  the 


EDGAR  FROITZHEIM  AND  OTHERS  77 

room,  but  they  barred  the  door.  She  came  undulat- 
ing towards  him,  and  she  seemed  to-  him  terrifyingly 
beautiful,  the  most  lovely  lady  he  had  ever  seen.  He 
thought  Mr.  Froitzheim  must  be  a  very  wonderful  artist 
to  have  such  a  studio,  such  a  house,  and  such  a  woman 
to  live  with  him. 

Mrs.  Froitzheim  made  him  sit  down  and  drew  his 
attention  to  a  bowl  of  flowers — tulips  and  daffodils. 
Mendel  touched  them  with  his  ringers,  lovingly  caressed 
the  fleshy  petals  of  a  tulip.  Mrs.  Froitzheim  went  over 
to  her  husband  and  whispered  to  him,  who  said : — 

"Yes.  Yes.  It  is  true.  He  responds  to  beauty  like 
a  flower  to  the  sun." 

In  the  centre  of  the  studio  was  a  large  picture  nearly 
finished  of  three  children  and  a  rocking-horse,  cleverly 
and  realistically  painted.  Mendel  looked  at  it  envi- 
ously, with  a  sinking  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  partly 
because  he  could  not  like  it,  and  partly  because  he  felt 
how  impossible  it  would  be  for  him  to  cover  so  vast  a 
canvas. 

"Like  it?"  said  Mr.  Froitzheim,  wheeling  it  about  to 
catch  the  best  light. 

"Yes,"  said  Mendel,  horrified  at  his  own  insincerity 
and  unhappy  at  the  vague  notion  possessing  him  that 
the  picture  was  too  large  for  him,  whose  notion  of  art 
was  concentration  upon  an  object  until  by  some  inexplica- 
ble process  it  had  yielded  up  its  beauty  in  paint.  Com- 
posing and  making  pictures  he  could  not  understand. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Froitzheim.  "So  you  want  to 
be  an  artist?  Art,  as  Michael  Angelo  said,  is  a  music 
and  mystery  that  very  few  are  privileged  to  understand. 
I  have  been  asked  by  the  committee  to  give  my  opinion, 
and  I  feel  that  it  is  a  serious  responsibility.  It  is  no 


78  MENDEL 


light  thing  to  advise  a  young  man  to  take  up  an  artistic 
career." 

"Yes,  Edgar,  that  is  very  true,"  said  his  wife,  with 
a  wide  reassuring  smile  at  Mendel,  whom  she  thought 
a  very  charming,  very  touching  little  figure,  standing 
there  drinking  in  the  words  as  they  fell  from  Edgar's 
lips. 

Mr.  Froitzheim  produced  a  pair  of  spectacles  and  bal- 
anced them  on  his  nose. 

"It  is  a  serious  thing,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
young  man  but  also  for  Art's  sake.  The  sense  of  beauty 
is  a  dangerous  possession.  It  is  like  a  razor,  safe  enough 
when  it  is  sharp,  injurious  when  it  is  blunted.  Your  fu- 
ture, it  seems,  depends  upon  my  word.  I  am  to  say 
whether  I  think  your  work  promising  enough  to  justify 
your  being  sent  to  a  school.  I  asked  you  to  bring  more 
of  your  work  to  confirm  the  impression  made  by  what 
I  have  already  seen." 

He  spoke  in  an  alert,  sibilant  voice  so  quickly  that 
his  words  whirled  through  Mendel's  mind  and  conveyed 
very  little  meaning.  Only  the  words  "a  music  and  mys- 
tery" lingered  and  grew.  They  were  such  lovely  words, 
and  expressed  for  him  something  very  living  in  his  ex- 
perience, something  that  lay,  as  he  would  have  said,  be- 
low his  heart.  He  loosened  the  string  of  his  untidy  par- 
cel and  took  out  the  picture  of  the  apples.  There  were 
music  and  mystery  in  it,  and  he  held  it  very  lovingly 
as  he  offered  it  to  Mrs.  Froitzheim,  much  as  she  had 
just  offered  him  the  bowl  of  flowers. 

"Very  well  painted  indeed,"  said  she,  and  Mendel 
winced.  He  turned  to  the  artist  as  to  an  equal,  expecting 
not  so  much  praise  as  recognition.  Mr.  Froitzheim  took 
the  picture  from  him  and  went  near  the  window.  He 
became  more  solemn  than  ever. 


EDGAR  FROITZHEIM  AND  OTHERS  79 

"This  is  much  better  than  the  drawings.     Have  you 
always  painted  still-life?" 

"I  painted  what  there  was  at  home." 

"Have  you  studied  the  still-life  in  the  galleries?  Do 
you  know  Fantin-Latour's  work?" 

"No,"  said  Mendel  blankly. 

"Of  course,  there  is  no  doubt  that  you  must  go  on." 

Mendel  had  never  had  any  doubt  of  it,  and  he  began 
to  feel  more  at  his  ease.  That  was  settled  then.  There 
would  be  no  more  factory  for  him.  He  was  to  be  an 
artist,  a  great  artist.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Froitzheim  was 
more  excited  than  he  let  himself  appear.  The  apples 
could  no  more  be  denied  than  the  sun  outside  or  the 
flowers  on  the  table.  ...  He  looked  with  more  interest 
at  Mr.  Froitzheim's  picture.  It  amused  him,  much  as 
the  drawings  in  the  illustrated  papers  amused  him,  and 
he  was  pleased  with  the  quality  of  the  paint.  He  was 
still  alarmed  by  the  hugeness  of  it.  His  eyes  could  not 
focus  it,  nor  could  his  mind  grasp  the  conception. 

Mrs.  Froitzheim  asked  him  to  stay  to  tea  and  en- 
couraged him  to  talk,  and  he  told  her  in  his  vivid  childish 
way  about  Golda  and  Issy  and  Harry  and  Leah  and 
Lotte.  She  found  him  delightfully  romantic  and  told 
him  that  he  must  not  be  afraid  to  come  again,  and  that 
they  would  be  only  too  glad  to  help  him.  Mr.  Froitzheim 
said : — 

"I  will  write  to  the  committee.  There  is  only  one 
school  in  London,  the  Detmold.  You  should  begin  there 
next  term,  six  weeks  from  now.  Don't  be  afraid,  work 
hard,  and  we  will  make  an  artist  of  you.  In  time  to 
come  we  shall  be  proud  of  you.  I  will  write  to  your 
mother,  and  one  of  these  days  I  will  give  myself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  on  her.  ...  You  must  come  and 
see  me  again,  and  I  will  take  you  to  see  pictures." 


8o  MENDEL 


Mendel  was  in  too  much  of  a  whirl  to  remember  to 
say  "Thank  you."  He  had  an  enormous  reverence  for 
Mr.  Froitzheim  as  a  real  artist,  but  as  a  man  he  in- 
stinctively distrusted  him.  It  takes  a  Jew  to  catch  a 
Jew,  and  Mendel  scented  in  Mr.  Froitzheim  the  Jew 
turned  Englishman  and  prosperous  gentleman.  And  in 
his  childish  confidence  he  was  aware  of  uneasiness  in  his 
host,  but  of  course  Mr.  Froitzheim  could  easily  bear 
down  that  impression,  though  he  could  not  obliterate  it. 
He  was  an  advanced  artist  and  was  just  settling  down 
after  an  audacious  youth.  He  had  been  one  of  a  band 
of  pioneers  who  had  defied  the  Royal  Academy,  and  he 
had  reached  the  awkward  age  in  a  pioneer's  life  when  he 
is  forced  to  realise  that  there  are  people  younger  than 
himself.  He  believed  in  his  "movement,"  and  wished  it 
to  continue  on  the  lines  laid  down  by  himself  and  his 
friends.  To  achieve  this  he  deemed  it  his  business  to 
be  an  influence  among  the  young  people  and  to  see  that 
they  were  properly  shepherded  into  the  Detmold,  there 
to  learn  the  gospel  according  to  S.  Ingres.  He  had  suf- 
fered so  much  from  being  a  Jew,  had  been  tortured  with 
doubts  as  to  whether  he  were  not  a  mere  calculating 
fantastic,  and  here  in  this  boy's  work  he  had  found  a 
quality  which  took  his  mind  back  to  his  own  early  en- 
thusiasm. That  seemed  so  long  ago  that  he  was  shocked 
and  unhappy,  and  hid  his  feelings  behind  the  solemnity 
which  he  had  developed  to  overawe  the  easy,  comfort- 
able, and  well-mannered  Englishmen  among  whom  he 
worked  for  the  cause  of  art. 

He  was  the  first  self -deceiver  Mendel  had  met,  and 
the  encounter  disturbed  him  greatly  and  depressed  him 
not  a  little,  so  that  he  was  rather  overawed  than  elated 
by  the  prospect  in  front  of  him.  He  felt  strangely  flung 
back  upon  himself,  and  that  this  help  given  to  him  was 


EDGAR  FROITZHEIM  AND  OTHERS  81 

not  really  help.  He  was  still,  as  always,  utterly  alone- 
with  his  obscure  desperate  purpose  for  sole  companion. 
Nobody  knew  about  that  purpose,  since  he  could  never 
define  it  except  in  his  work,  and  that  to  other  people  was 
simply  something  to  be  looked  at  with  pleasure  or  indif- 
ference, as  it  happened.  He  used  to  try  and  explain 
it  to  his  mother,  and  she  used  to  nod  her  head  and  say : 
"Yes.  Yes.  I  understand.  That  is  God.  He  is  behind 
everybody,  though  it  is  given  to  few  to  know  it.  It 
is  given  to  you,  and  God  has  chosen  you,  as  He  chose- 
Samuel.  .  .  .  Yes.  Yes.  God  has  chosen  you."  And 
he  found  it  a  relief  sometimes  to  think  that  God  had 
chosen  him,  though  he  was  disturbed  to  find  Golda  much 
less  moved  by  that  idea  than  by  the  letter  which  Mr. 
Froitzheim  wrote  to  her,  in  which  he  said  that  her  son 
had  a  very  rare  talent,  a  very  beautiful  nature,  and  that 
a  day  would  come  when  she  would  be  proud  of  his  fame. 

Yet  there  were  unhappy  days  of  waiting.  Jacob  would 
not  hear  of  his  leaving  the  factory  until  everything  was 
settled,  and  when  Mendel  told  the  foreman  he  was  prob- 
ably going  to  leave  to  be  an  artist,  that  worthy  drew 
the  most  horrible  picture  of  the  artist's  life  as  a  mixture 
of  debauchery  and  starvation,  and  told  a  story  of  a  friend' 
of  his,  a  marvellous  sculptor,  who  had  come  down  to 
carving  urns  for  graves — all  through  the  drink  and  the 
models ;  much  better,  he  said,  to  stick  to  a  certain  income 
and  the  saints. 

At  last  Maurice  Birnbaum  came  in  his  motor-car. 
Everything  was  settled.  The  fees  at  the  Detmold  would 
be  paid  as  long  as  the  reports  were  satisfactory,  and 
Mendel  would  be  allowed  five  shillings  a  week  pocket- 
money,  but  he  must  be  well-behaved  and  clean,  and  he 
must  read  good  literature  and  learn  to  write  good  Eng- 
lish. "I  will  see  to  that,"  said  Maurice.  "I  am  to  takeb 


82  MENDEL 


him  now  with  some  of  his  work  to  see  Sir  Julius.  His 
fortune  is  made,  Mrs.  Kiihler.  Isn't  it  wonderful?  He 
is  a  genius.  He  has  the  world  at  his  feet.  Everything 
is  open  to  him.  I  have  been  to  Oxford,  Mrs.  Kiihler,  but 
I  shall  never  have  anything  like  the  opportunities  that  he 
will  have.  It  is  marvellous  to  think  of  his  drawing  like 
that  in  your  kitchen."  Maurice  was  really  excited.  His 
heart  was  as  full  of  kindness  as  a  honeycomb  of  honey, 
but  he  had  no  tact.  His  words  fell  on  Golda  and  Men- 
del like  hailstones.  They  nipped  and  stung  and  chilled. 
Golda  looked  at  Mendel,  he  at  her,  and  they  stood 
ashamed.  "We  must  hurry,"  said  Maurice.  "Sir  Julius 
must  not  be  kept  waiting.  He  is  a  stickler  for  punc- 
tuality." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Maurice  only  knew  Sir  Julius 
officially.  His  family  had  never  been  admitted  to  the 
society  in  which  Sir  Julius  was  a  power  and  a  light.  The 
entrance  to  the  house  of  the  millionaire  was  a  far  greater 
event  to  him  than  it  was  to  Mendel. 

The  splendid  motor-car  rolled  through  the  wonderful 
crowded  streets,  Maurice  fussing  and  telling  Mendel  to 
take  care  his  parcel  did  not  scratch  the  paint,  and  swung 
up  past  the  Polytechnic  into  the  desolation  of  Portland 
Place.  At  a  corner  house  they  stopped.  The  double  door 
was  swung  open  by  two  powdered  footmen,  and  by  the 
inner  door  stood  a  bald,  rubicund  butler.  Maurice  gave 
his  name,  told  Mendel  to  wait,  and  followed  the  butler  up 
a  magnificent  marble  staircase  with  an  ormolu  balus- 
trade. Mendel  was  left  standing  with  his  parcel, 
while  one  of  the  footmen  mounted  guard  over  him. 
He  stood  there  for  a  long  time,  still  ashamed,  be- 
wildered, smelling  money,  money,  money,  until  he  reeled. 
It  made  him  think  of  Mr.  Kuit,  who  alone  of  his  ac- 
quaintance could  have  been  at  his  ease  in  such  splendour. 


EDGAR  FROITZHEIM  AND  OTHERS  83 

He  felt  beggarly,  but  he  was  stiffened  in  his  pride. 
The  butler  appeared  presently  and  conducted  him  up- 
stairs to  a  vast  apartment  all  crystal  and  cloth  of  gold. 
In  the  far  corner  sat  a  group  of  people,  among  whom, 
in  his  confusion,  Mendel  could  only  distinguish  Maurice 
Birnbaum  and  a  small,  wrinkled,  bald  old  man  with  a 
beard,  whose  eyes  were  quick  and  black,  peering  out  from 
under  the  yellow  skull,  peering  out  and  taking  nothing  in. 
For  the  purposes  of  taking  in  his  nose  seemed  more  than 
sufficient.  It  was  like  a  beak,  like  an  inverted  scoop. 
And  yet  his  features  were  not  so  very  different  from 
those  of  the  old  men  at  home  whom  Mendel  reverenced. 
There  was  a  strange  dignity  in  them,  yet  not  a  trace  of 
the  fine  quality  of  the  old  faces  he  loved  that  looked  so 
sorrowfully  out  on  the  world,  and  through  their  eyes  and 
through  every  line  seemed  to  absorb  from  the  world  all 
its  suffering,  all  its  vileness,  and  to  transmute  it  into 
strong  human  beauty.  There  were  some  women  pres- 
ent, but  they  made  no  impression  whatever  on  Mendel, 
who  was  entirely  occupied  with  Sir  Julius  and  with  re- 
sisting the  feeling  of  helplessness  with  which  he  was  in- 
spired in  his  presence.  He  heard  Maurice  Birnbaum 
talking  about  him,  describing  his  life,  his  mother's 
kitchen,  the  street  where  he  lived,  and  then  he  was  told 
to  exhibit  his  pictures.  A  footman  appeared  and  put  out 
a  chair  for  him,  and  on  this,  one  after  another,  he  placed 
his  drawings  and  pictures.  Not  a  word  was  said.  Even 
the  apples  were  received  in  silence.  Sir  Julius  gave  a 
grunt  and  began  to  talk  to  one  of  the  women.  Maurice 
gave  Mendel  to  understand  that  the  interview  was  over, 
and  the  poor  boy  was  conducted  downstairs  by  the  but- 
ler. He  had  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket  and  had  to  walk 
all  the  way  home  with  his  parcel,  which  his  arms  were 
hardly  long  enough  to  hold. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   DETMOLD 


"CALLING  into  the  art  school,  he  was  like  a  leggy  colt 
-*•  in  a  new  field,  very  shy  of  it  at  first,  of  the  trees 
in  the  hedges,  of  the  shadows  cast  by  the  trees.  This 
place  was  very  different  from  the  Polytechnic.  There 
were  fewer  old  ladies,  and  more  boys  of  his  own  age. 
The  teachers  were  Professors,  and  the  pupils  held  them 
in  awe  and  respect.  There  were  real  models  in  the  life- 
class,  male  and  female,  and  the  students,  male  and  fe- 
male, worked  together.  No  ginger-beer  bottles  here, 
where  art  was  a  practical  business.  The  school  existed 
for  the  purpose  of  teaching  the  craft  of  making  pictures, 
and  its  law  was  that  the  basis  of  the  mystery  was 
drawing. 

Mendel's  first  attitude  towards  the  other  students  was 
that  he  was  there  to  beat  them  all.  He  would  swell  with 
eagerness  and  enthusiasm,  and  tell  himself  that  he  had 
something  that  they  all  lacked.  He  would  watch  their 
movements,  their  heads  bending  over  their  work,  their 
hands  scratching  away  at  the  paper,  and  he  could  see  that 
they  had  none  of  them  the  vigour  that  was  in  himself. 
And  by  way  of  showing  how  much  stronger  he  was  he 
would  use  his  pencil  almost  as  though  it  were  a  chisel  and 
his  paper  a  block  of  stone  out  of  which  he  was  to  carve 
the  likeness  of  the  model.  He  was  rudely  taken  down 

84 


THE  DETMOLD  85 


when  the  Professor  stood  and  stared  with  his  melancholy 
eyes  at  his  production  and  said : — 

"Is  that  the  best  you  can  do?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  do  it?" 

This  was  a  stock  phrase  of  the  Professor's,  but  Mendel 
did  not  know  that,  and  he  was  ashamed  and  outraged 
when  the  class  tittered. 

"No,"  said  the  Professor.  "I  don't  know  what  that  is. 
It  certainly  isn't  drawing."  And  with  his  pencil  he  made 
a  lovely  easy  sketch  of  the  model,  alongside  Mendel's 
black,  forbidding  scrawl.  It  was  a  masterly  thing  and  it 
baffled  him,  and  humiliated  him  because  the  Professor 
moved  on  to  the  next  pupil  without  another  word.  Not 
another  line  could  Mendel  draw  that  day.  He  sat  staring 
at  the  Professor's  sketch  and  at  his  own  drawing,  which, 
while  he  had  been  doing  it,  had  meant  so  much  to  him, 
and  he  still  preferred  his  own.  The  Professor's  drawing 
had  no  meaning  for  him.  He  could  not  understand  it, 
except  that  it  was  accurate.  That  he  could  see,  but  then 
his  own  was  accurate  too,  and  true  to  what  he  had  seen. 
The  light  gave  the  model  a  distorted  shoulder,  and  he 
had  laboured  to  render  that  distortion,  which  the  Pro- 
fessor had  either  ignored  or  had  corrected. 

Mendel  cut  out  the  Professor's  drawing  and  took  it 
home  and  copied  it  over  and  over  again,  but  still  he  could 
not  understand  it.  He  was  in  despair  and  told  Golda  he 
would  never  learn. 

"I  shall  never  learn  to  draw,  and  the  Christian  kops 
will  all  beat  me,"  he  said. 

"But  they  sent  you  to  the  school  because  you  can  draw. 
Didn't  Mr.  Froitzheim  say  that  you  could  draw!" 

"The  Professor  looks  at  me  with  his  gloomy  face,  like 
an  undertaker  asking  for  the  body,  and  he  says  :  'I  mean 


86  MENDEL 


to  say,  that  isn't  drawing.  It  isn't  impressionism.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.' ' 

"It  can't  be  a  very  good  school,"  said  Golda. 

"But  it  is.  It  is  the  only  school.  All  the  best  painters 
have  been  there,  and  Mr.  Froitzheim  sent  his  own  brother 
to  it.  The  Professor  says  I  shall  never  paint  a  picture  if 
I  don't  learn  to  draw,  and  I  can't  do  it,  I  can't  do  it !" 

To  console  himself  he  painted  hard  every  evening  and 
regarded  the  Detmold  entirely  as  a  place  to  which  his 
duty  condemned  him — >a  place  where  he  had  to  learn  this 
strange  wizardry  called  drawing,  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand. He  went  there  every  day  and  never  spoke  to  a 
soul,  because  he  realised  that  his  speech  was  different 
from  that  of  the  others,  and  he  would  not  open  his  mouth 
until  he  could  speak  without  betraying  himself.  He  lis- 
tened carefully  to  their  pronunciation  and  intonation,  and 
practised  to  himself  in  bed  and  as  he  walked  through  the 
streets. 

So  woful  were  his  attempts  to  emulate  the  Detmold 
style  of  drawing,  that  at  last  the  Professor  asked  him  if 
he  was  doing  any  work  at  home.  To  this  Mendel  replied 
eagerly  that  he  was  painting  a  portrait  of  his  mother. 

"Hum,"  said  the  Professor.    "May  I  see  it?" 

So  Mendel  brought  the  picture,  and  the  Professor 
said : — 

"I  mean  to  say,  young  man,  that  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad 
thing  if  you  gave  up  work  a  little.  I  don't  want  to  have 
to  send  in  a  bad  report,  but  what  can  I  do?  There's 
something  in  you,  plenty  of  grit  and  all  that,  but  you're 
young,  and,  I  mean  to  say,  you're  here  to  learn  what  we 
can  teach  you.  When  we've  done  with  you,  you  can  go 
your  own  way  and  be  hanged  to  you.  If  you  want  to 
smudge  about  with  paint  and  fake  what  you  can't  draw, 
there's  the  Academy." 


THE  DETiMOLD  87 


At  this  awful  suggestion  Mendel  shuddered.  He  was 
imbued  enough  with  the  Detmold  tradition  to  regard  the 
Academy  as  Limbo. 

He  gave  up  painting  at  home,  and  hurled  himself  des- 
perately at  the  task  of  producing  a  drawing  that  should 
satisfy  the  Professor.  Towards  the  end  of  his  first  term 
he  succeeded,  and  had  his  reward  in  words  of  praise  in 
front  of  the  class. 

The  Professor  had  meanwhile  taken  one  of  the  pupils 
aside  and  asked  him  not  to  leave  the  poor  little  devil  so 
utterly  alone.  "After  all,"  he  said,  "the  school  doesn't 
exist  only  for  drawing.  It  has  its  social  side  as  well, 
and  I  don't  like  to  see  any  one  cold-shouldered  unless  he 
deserves  it.  I  mean  to  say,  you  other  fellows  have  ad- 
vantages which  don't  necessarily  entitle  you  to  mop  up  all 
the  good  things  and  leave  none  for  your  fellow-crea- 
tures." 

Mitchell,  the  pupil,  took  his  homily  awkwardly  enough, 
but  promised  that  he  would  do  what  he  could.  He  seized 
his  opportunity  one  day  when  Mendel  at  lunch  had  hor- 
rified the  company  by  picking  up  a  chicken  bone  and  tear- 
ing at  it  with  his  teeth.  Mitchell  took  him  aside  and 
said : — 

"I  say,  Kiihler,  old  man,  you'll  excuse  my  mention- 
ing it,  you  know,  but  it  isn't  done.  I  mean,  we  eat  our 
food  with  forks." 

Mendel  knew  what  was  meant,  for  at  lunch  he  had 
been  conscious  of  horrified  eyes  staring  at  him  and  had 
wished  the  floor  would  open  and  swallow  him  up.  He 
muttered  incoherent  words  of  thanks  and  wanted  to  rush 
away,  but  Mitchell  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  said : — 

"I  say,  we  artists  must  hang  together.  There  aren't 
many  of  this  crowd  who  will  come  to  anything,  and  the 


88  MENDEL 


Pro  thinks  no  end  of  you.  Won't  you  come  along  and 
•have  tea  with  me  and  some  of  the  other  fellows?" 

Mendel  went  with  him,  delighting  in  the  young  man's 
easy,  condescending  Public  School  manner  and  pleas- 
ant, crisp  voice,  in  which  he  spoke  with  an  exaggerated 
emphasis. 

"Gawd!"  he  said.  "It  makes  me  sick  to  see  all  the 
fools  and  the  women  wasting  their  time  there,  scratching 
away,  while  those  of  us  who  have  any  talent  and  could 
learn  anything  are  left  to  flounder  along  as  best  we  may. 
Do  you  smoke?" 

Mendel  had  never  smoked,  but  he  did  not  like  to  re- 
fuse. He  took  a  cigarette,  which  very  soon  made  him  feel 
sick  and  giddy.  He  lurched  along  with  Mitchell  until 
they  came  to  a  tea-shop,  where  they  found  two  other 
young  men  whose  faces  were  familiar. 

"I've  brought  Kiihler,"  said  Mitchell.  "He's  a  genius. 
This  is  Weldon,  who  is  also  a  genius,  and  Kessler,  who 
can't  paint  for  nuts,  and  I'm  a  blame  fool,  though  it's 
not  my  fault.  My  father's  a  great  man.  Gawd!  what 
can  you  do  when  your  own  father  takes  the  shine  out  of 
you  at  every  turn?" 

They  began  to  talk  of  pictures  and  of  one  Calthrop, 
who  was  apparently  the  greatest  painter  the  world  had 
ever  seen  and  a  product  of  the  Detmold. 

"Sells  everything  he  puts  his  name  to,"  said  Kessler. 

"What  a  man !"  said  Weldon.  "Goes  his  own  way, 
absolutely  believing  in  his  art.  If  they  like  it,  well  and 
good.  If  they  don't  like  it,  let  'em  lump  it.  He's  as 
often  drunk  as  not,  and  as  for  women  ...  !" 

Weldon  and  Kessler  deserted  pictures  for  women. 
Mitchell  grew  more  and  more  glum,  while  Mendel  was 
still  feeling  the  effects  of  the  cigarette  too  strongly  to  be 
able  to  take  in  a  word. 


THE  DETMOLD  89 


"Gawd !"  said  Mitchell.  "There  they  go,  talking  away, 
absolutely  incapable  of  keeping  anything  clear  of  women. 
I  can't  stand  it." 

He  dragged  Mendel  away,  leaving  his  friends  to  pay 
the  bill;  and,  as  they  walked,  he  explained  that  he  was 
in  love,  and  could  not  stand  all  that  bawdy  rubbish,  and 
he  elaborated  a  theory  that  an  artist  needed  to  be  in  love 
to  keep  himself  alive  to  the  sanctity  of  the  human  body, 
familiarity  with  which,  was  apt  to  breed  contempt  or  an 
excessive  curiosity.  Mendel  said  that  he  also  had  been 
in  love,  and  he  gave  a  vivid  account  of  his  raptures  with 
Sara. 

"My  God!"  cried  Mitchell;  "you  don't  mean  to  say 
that  she  came  to  you — a  girl  like  that  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mendel ;  "I  was  never  so  happy." 

"But,  I  say,  weren't  you  afraid?" 

"She  was  very  beautiful." 

Mitchell  pondered  this  for  a  long  time.  He  seemed 
to  be  profoundly  shaken.  At  last  he  said: — 

"But  with  a  girl  you  loved?" 

"I  loved  her  when  she  was  there." 

"But  when  she  wasn't  there?" 

"I  was  busy  painting." 

"I  say,  you  are  a  corker!  If  it  were  Weldon  or  Kess- 
ler  I  should  say  you  were  lying." 

"I  do  not  lie,"  replied  Mendel  with  some  heat.  "It 
may  have  been  wrong,  but  it  was  good,  and  I  was  happier 
after  it.  I  think  I  should  have  gone  mad  without  it,  for 
everything  had  disappeared — everything — everything ; 
and  without  painting  you  do  not  understand  how  terrible 
and  empty  life  is  to  me.  I  have  nothing,  you  see.  I  am 
poor,  and  my  father  and  mother  will  always  be  poor. 
Their  life  is  hard  and  beastly,  but  they  do  not  complain, 


90  MENDEL 


and  I  should  not  complain  if  I  did  not  have  this  other 
thing  that  I  must  do." 

"Well,  I'm  jolly  glad  to  know  you,"  said  Mitchell. 
"I'm  not  much  of  a  fellow,  but  I'd  like  you  to  know  my 
people.  My  father's  a  great  man.  He'll  stir  you  up. 
And  you  must  come  along  with  me  and  Weldon  and 
Kessler  and  see  life  while  you're  young.  Good-bye." 

He  shook  hands  vigorously  with  Mendel  and  strode 
off  with  his  long,  raking  stride,  while  Mendel  stood  glow- 
ing with  the  happiness  of  having  found  a  friend,  some 
one  to  whom  he  could  talk  almost  as  he  talked  to  Golda : 
a  fine  young  Englishman,  pink  and  oozing  robustious 
health,  ease,  refinement,  and  comfort.  He  thought  with  a 
devoted  tenderness  of  Mitchell's  rather  absurd  round 
face,  with  its  tip-tilted  nose  and  blinking  eyes,  its  little 
rosebud  of  a  mouth  and  plump  round  chin,  on  which  there 
was  hardly  a  trace  of  a  beard.  .  .  .  "My  friend!" 
thought  Mendel,  "my  friend!"  And  he  gave  a  leap  of 
joy.  It  meant  for  him  the  end  of  his  loneliness.  No 
longer  was  he  to  be  the  poor,  isolated  Yiddisher,  but 
he  was  to  move  and  have  his  being  with  these  fine  young 
men  who  were  the  leading  spirits  of  the  school,  the  guard- 
ians of  the  tradition  bequeathed  to  it  by  the  great  Cal- 
throp.  .  .  .  Oh!  he  would  learn  their  way  of  drawing, 
he  would  do  it  better  than  any  of  them.  He  would  be 
gay  with  them  and  wild  and  merry  and  young.  And 
all  the  while  secretly  he  would  be  working  and  working, 
following  up  that  inner  purpose  until  one  day  he  appeared 
with  a  picture  so  wonderful  that  the  Professor  would  say, 
,  like  Mr.  Sivwright,  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  learn. 
And  because  of  his  wonderful  work,  everybody  would 
forget  that  he  was  a  Jew,  and  he  would  move  freely  and 
easily  in  that  wonderful  England  which  he  had  begun 
to  perceive  behind  the  fresh  young  men  like  Mitchell  and 


THE  DETMOLD  91 


the  cool,  pretty  girls  at  the  school.  That  England  was 
their  inheritance  and  they  seemed  hardly  aware  of  it. 
He  would  win  it  by  work  and  by  dint  of  the  power  that 
was  in  him. 

Of  the  girls  at  the  school  he  was  afraid.  He  blushed 
and  trembled  when  any  one  of  them  spoke  to  him,  and 
he  never  noticed  them  enough  to  distinguish  one  from 
another,  so  that  they  existed  only  as  a  vague  nuisance  and 
a  menace  to  his  happiness.  Before  Mitchell  he  was 
prostrate.  He  bewildered  and  confounded  that  young 
man  with  his  outpourings,  both  by  word  of  mouth  and 
by  letter.  .He  had  absolutely  no  reserve,  and  poured 
out  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  his  experiences,  and 
Mitchell  at  last  took  up  a  protective  attitude  towards  him 
and  defended  him  from  the  detestation  which  he  aroused 
in  the  majority  of  his  fellow-students.  At  the  same  time 
Mitchell  often  felt  that  of  the  two  he  was  the  greater 
child,  and  he  would  look  back  upon  the  years  he  had 
spent  at  school  in  a  rueful  and  puzzled  state  of  mind, 
half  realising  that  he  had  been  shoved  aside  while  the 
stream  of  life  went  on,  and  that  now  he  had  to  fight  his 
way  back  into  it.  While  Mendel  had  been  wrestling  and 
struggling,  he  had  been  put  away  in  cotton-wool,  every 
difficulty  that  had  cropped  up  had  been  met,  every  deep 
desire  had  found  its  outlet  in  convention.  And  now  that 
he  had  set  out  to  be  an  artist,  here  was  this  Jew  with 
years  of  hard  work  behind  him,  and  such  a  familiarity 
with  his  medium  that  he  could  do  more  or  less  as  he 
liked  without  being  held  up  by  shyness  or  awkwardness. 
And  it  was  the  same  in  life.  Mendel  was  abashed  by 
nothing,  was  ashamed  of  nothing.  Life  had  many  faces. 
He  was  prepared  to  regard  them  all,  and  to  fit  his  conduct 
to  every  one  of  them.  He  was  critical,  not  because  he 
wished  to  reject  anything,  but  because  he  must  know 


92  MENDEL 


the  nature  of  everything  before  he  accepted  it.  He 
hated  and  loved  simply  and  passionately,  and  if  he  felt 
no  emotion  he  never  disguised  the  fact.  Whereas 
Mitchell  and  the  others  were  so  eager  to  feel  the  emo- 
tions which  their  upbringing  had  denied  that  they  leaped 
before  they  looked  and  fabricated  what  they  did  not  feel. 
Mendel  learned  from  them  that  life  could  be  pleasant, 
and  they  became  aware  that  there  were  regions  of  life 
beyond  the  fringes  of  pleasantness.  They  softened  him 
and  he  hardened  them.  They  were  always  together, 
Mendel,  Mitchell,  Weldon  and  Kessler,  working  steadily 
enough,  but  out  of  working  hours  kicking  up  their  heels 
and  stampeding  through  the  pleasures  of  London.  .  .  . 
Calthrop  was  the  divinity  they  served.  He  was  a  man  of 
genius  and  had  made  the  Detmold  famous.  Those,  there- 
fore, who  came  after  him  at  the  school  must  support  him 
in  everything.  That  was  Mitchell's  contention,  who  was 
by  now  in  full  swing  of  revolt  against  his  Public  School 
training,  and  in  his  adoration  Mendel  followed  him,  and 
the  others  were  dragged  in  their  train.  Calthrop  dressed 
extravagantly :  so  did  the  four.  Calthrop  smashed  fur- 
niture :  so  did  the  four.  And  as  Calthrop  drank,  embraced 
women,  and  sometimes  painted  outrageously,  the  four 
did  all  these  things. 

To  Mendel  it  was  Life — something  new,  rich,  splendid, 
and  thrilling.  He  had  lived  so  long  cramped  over  his 
work  that  it  was  almost  agony  to  him  to  move  in  this 
swift  stream  of  incessant  excitement.  There  was  no 
spirit  of  revolt  in  him.  He  could  shed  some  of  the  out- 
ward forms  of  his  religion,  as  to  Golda's  great  distress 
he  did,  but  against  its  spirit  he  could  not  rebel.  That 
he  carried  with  him  everywhere :  the  bare  stubborn  faith 
in  man,  ground  down  by  life  and  living  in  sorrow  all  his 
days.  Happy  he  was  not,  nor  did  he  expect  to  be  so. 


THE  DETMOLD  93 


He  might  be  happy  one  day,  but  he  would  be  miserable 
the  next.  Life  in  him  was  not  greatly  concerned  with 
either,  but  only  to  have  both  happiness  and  misery  in  full 
measure.  His  deepest  feelings  arose  out  of  his  work,  the 
first  condition  of  his  existence;  they  arose  out  of  it  and 
sank  back  into  it  again.  His  work  was  the  visible  and  tan- 
gible form  of  his  being,  which  he  hated  and  loved  as  it  ap- 
proached or  receded  from  the  terrible  power  that  was 
both  beautiful  and  ugly,  and  yet  something  transcending 
either.  .  .  .  And  away  there  in  London  was  the  Chris-  / 
tian  world  of  shows.  What  he  was  seeking  lay  beyond  V 
that,  and  not  in  the  dark  Jewishness  of  his  home.  There 
lay  the  spirit,  but  the  outward  and  visible  form  was  to 
be  sought  yonder,  where  the  lights  flared  and  the  women 
smiled  at  themselves  in  mirrors.  He  hurled  himself  into 
the  shows  of  the  Christian  world  in  a  blind  desire  to 
break  through  them,  but  always  he  was  flung  back, 
bruised,  aching,  and  weary. 

Day  after  day  he  would  spend  listlessly  at  home  or 
at  the  school  until  seven  o'clock  came  and  it  was  time 
to  go  to  the  Paris  Cafe,  to  sit  among  the  painters  and 
listen  to  violent  talk,  talk,  talk — abuse  of  successful  men, 
derision  of  the  great  masters,  mysterious  and  awful  whis- 
pers of  what  men  were  doing  in  Paris,  terrible  denuncia- 
tions of  dealers,  critics,  and  the  public. 

The  cafe  was  a  kind  of  temple  and  had  its  ritual.  It 
was  the  aim  of  the  painters  to  "put  some  life  into  dear 
old  London."  Calthrop  had  given  a  lead.  He  had  de- 
termined that  London  should  be  awakened  to  art,  as  the 
writing  folk  of  a  past  generation  had  aroused  the  swollen 
metropolis  to  literature  and  poetry.  London  should  be 
made  aware  of  its  painters  as  Paris  was  aware  of  the 
Quartier  Latin.  Bohemia  should  no  longer  be  the  ter- 
ritory of  actresses,  horsecopers,  and  betting  touts.  The 


94  MENDEL 


Paris  Cafe  therefore  became  the  shrine  of  Calthrop's 
personality,  and  thither  every  night  repaired  the  artists 
and  their  parasites,  who  saw  in  the  place  an  avenue  to 
liberty  and  fame.  In  the  glitter  and  the  excitement,  the 
brilliance,  the  colour,  the  women  with  their  painted  faces, 
the  white  marble-topped  tables,  the  mirrors  along  the 
walls,  the  blue  wreathing  tobacco-smoke,  Calthrop's  per- 
sonality was  magnified  and  concentrated  as  in  a  theatre. 
The  cafe  without  him  was  Denmark  without  the  Prince, 
and  Mendel  found  the  hours  before  he  came  or  the  eve- 
nings when  he  did  not  come  almost  insupportable.  Yet 
it  was  not  the  man's  success  or  his  fame  or  his  notoriety 
that  fascinated  the  boy,  whose  instinct  went  straight  to 
the  immense  vitality  which  was  the  cause  of  all.  Cal- 
throp  was  a  huge  man,  dark  and  glowering.  To  Mendel 
he  was  like  a  figure  out  of  the  Bible — like  King  of  Saul, 
in  his  black  moods  and  the  inarticulate  fury  that  pos- 
sessed him  sometimes ;  and  when  he  picked  up  and  hurled 
a  glass  at  some  artist  whose  face  or  whose  work  had 
offended  him,  he  was  very  like  King  Saul  hurling  the 
javelin. 

There  was  always  a  thrill  when  he  entered  the  cafe. 
The  buzz  would  die  down.  Where  would  he  sit  and 
whom  would  he  speak  to?  ...  It  was  one  of  the  great- 
est moments  in  Mendel's  life  when  one  evening  Calthrop 
came  sweeping  in  with  his  cloak  flung  round  his  shoulders 
and  sat  opposite  him  and  his  three  companions  and  raised 
a  finger  and  beckoned. 

"He  wants  you,"  said  Mitchell,  pushing  Mendel  for- 
ward. 

"Come  here,  boy,"  growled  Calthrop,  stabbing  with 
his  pipe-stem  in  the  direction  of  the  seat  by  his  side. 
"Come  here  and  bring  your  friends.  Bought  a  drawing 
of  yours  this  morning.  Damn  good." 


THE  DETMOLD  95 


Mitchell,  Kessler,  and  Weldon  came  and  sat  at  the 
table,  all  too  overawed  to  speak. 

"What's  your  drink,  heh?" 

Drinks  were  ordered. 

"Rotten  trade,  art,"  said  Calthrop.  "Dangerous  trade. 
Drink,  women,  flattery.  Don't  drink.  Marry,  settle 
down,  and  your  wife'll  hate  you  because  you're  always 
about  the  place.  .  .  .  God !  I  wish  I  could  be  a  Catholic. 
I'd  be  a  monk.  .  .  .  My  boy,  don't  get  into  the  habit  of 
doing  drawings.  They  won't  look  at  your  pictures  if  you 
do,  and  we  want  pictures — my  God,  we  do !  Everybody 
paints  pictures  as  though  they  were  for  a  competition. 
You've  got  life  to  draw  from — real,  stinking  life.  That's 
why  I  have'  hopes  of  you." 

Mendel  was  so  fluttered  and  flattered  that  he  could 
only  gulp  down  his  drink  and  blink  round  the  cafe,  feel- 
ing that  all  eyes  were  upon  him ;  and  indeed  he  was  at- 
tracting such  attention  as  had  never  before  been  be- 
stowed on  him.  A  girl  at  the  next  table  ogled  him  and 
smiled.  She  was  with  a  young  man  whom  the  four  de- 
tested and  despised.  This  young  man  reached  over  to 
take  a  bowl  of  sugar  from  their  table.  To  take  anything 
from  the  great  man's  table  without  so  much  as  "By  your 
leave"  was  sacrilege  and  was  very  properly  resented. 
There  was  a  scuffle,  the  sugar  was  scattered  on  the  floor, 
glasses  fell  crashing  down,  Mitchell  and  Weldon  hurled 
themselves  on  the  young  man,  and  the  manager  came 
bustling  up,  crying :  "If-a-you-pleess-a-gentlemen."  But 
there  was  no  breaking  the  melee.  A  waiter  was  sent  out 
for  the  police,  and  three  constables  came  filing  in.  One 
of  them  seized  Mitchell,  and  Mendel,  half  mad  with  drink 
and  excitement,  seeing  his  beloved  friend,  as  he  thought, 
being  taken  off  to  prison,  leaped  on  the  policeman's  back 
and  brought  him  down.  In  the  confusion  Calthrop  and 


96  MENDEL 


the  others  slipped  away  and  Mendel  was  arrested,  still 
fighting  like  a  wild  cat,  and  led  off  to  the  police-station, 
the  constable  whispering  kindly  in  his  ear :  "Steady,  my 
boy,  steady.  A  youngster  like  you  should  keep  clear  of 
the  drink." 

The  inspector  smiled  at  the  extreme  youthfulness  of 
the  offender,  but  decided  that  a  taste  of  the  cells  would 
do  no  harm  and  that  the  boy  had  better  be  sober  before 
he  was  sent  home.  So  Mendel  had  four  hours  on  a  hard 
bench  until  a  constable  came  in  and  asked  him  if  he 
wanted  bail.  He  said  "Yes,"  and,  when  asked  for  a 
name,  gave  Calthrop's,  who  presently  arrived  and  saw 
him  liberated,  after  being  told  to  appear  in  court  next 
morning  at  ten  o'clock. 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  his  mother  waiting 
up  for  him  with  wet  cloths  in  case  his  head  should  be 
bad. 

"What  now  ?    What  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"I've  been  in  prison." 

"Prison!"  Golda  flung  up  her  hands  and  sat  down 
heavily.  For  her  all  was  lost.  It  was  true  then,  that, 
outside  in  the  world,  at  the  other  end  of  it,  was  always 
prison,  for  the  just  and  for  the  unjust,  for  the  old  and 
for  the  young,  for  the  innocent  and  for  the  guilty. 

He  tried  to  make  light  of  it.  For  him,  too,  it  was  a 
serious  matter.  He  saw  himself  figuring  in  the  Sunday 
papers:  "Famous  Artist  in  the  Police  Court,"  with  his 
portrait  in  profile  as  on  a  medallion.  Birnbaum  and  Sir 
Julius  would  read  it.  He  would  be  taken  away  from  the 
Detmold  and  Edward  Tufnell  would  never  speak  to  him 
again.  He  astonished,  embarrassed,  and  delighted  Golda 
by  flinging  himself  in  her  arms  and  sobbing  out  his 
grief. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


HETTY    FINCH 


GOLDA  was  passing  through  a  very  difficult  time. 
Rosa  was  hotter  on  the  pursuit  of  Issy  than  ever. 
Harry  had  had  a  violent  quarrel  consequent  on  his  reit- 
erated demand  for  proof  of  the  judicial  destruction  of 
Christianity  in  America,  and  at  last,  like  his  father,  he 
went  out  and  bought  a  clean  collar  and  announced  his 
departure  for  Paris.  He  went  away  and  not  a  word  had 
been  heard  from  him.  Lotte  refused  to  look  at  any  of  the 
young  men  brought  by  the  match-makers,  and  Leah  was 
the  only  comfortable  member  of  the  family,  and  she  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  her  unhapiness  with  Moscowitsch. 
She  would  come  on  Saturday  evenings  and  go  up  to  her 
mother's  room  and  fling  herself  on  the  bed  and  cry  her 
heart  out,  until  late  in  the  evening  Moscowitsch  came  to 
fetch  her,  when  she  would  go  meekly  and  apparently 
happily  enough.  .  .  .  And  on  the  top  of  all  these  trou- 
bles, here  was  Mendel  going  to  the  devil  at  a  gallop. 

Leah's  trouble  with  Moscowitsch  was  that  he  would 
never  let  her  go  out  without  him,  and  he  could  very 
rarely  be  persuaded  to  go  out  at  all.  As  for  going  away 
in  the  summer,  he  could  see  no  sense  in  it.  He  gave 
his  wife  a  fine  house.  What  more  did  she  want?  She 
had  her  children  to  look  after.  What  greater  pleasure 
could  she  desire ?  His  life  was  entirely  filled  with  his 

97 


98  MENDEL 


business  and  his  home,  and  he  would  not  look  beyond 
them.  The  neighbours  went  to  the  seaside?  The  neigh- 
bours were  fools  who  lived  for  ostentation  and  display. 
They  did  not  know  when  they  were  well  off.  .  .  .  Mos- 
cowitsch  had  a  great  admiration  for  his  father-in-law  as 
a  man  who  knew  what  life  was  and  refused  to  dilute  its 
savour  with  folly,  and  he  regarded  Golda  as  a  perfect 
type  of  woman,  one  who  left  the  management  of  life  to 
her  husband  and  allowed  herself  to  be  absorbed  in  her 
duties  as  a  wife  and  mother. 

But  Leah  longed  to  go  to  the  seaside.  It  became  an 
obsession  with  her,  and,  because  she  could  never  talk  of 
it,  she  thought  of  nothing  else.  She  was  sick  with  envy 
when  she  saw  the  neighbours  going  off  with  the  children 
carrying  buckets  and  spades.  Secretly  she  bought  her 
own  children  buckets  and  spades,  though  they  were  much 
too  small  to  use  them. 

At  last,  when  her  worries  began  to  tell  on  Golda,  Leah 
declared  that  what  she  needed  was  sea  air,  and  offered 
to  take  her  for  a  fortnight  to  Margate,  and  Golda,  anx- 
ious to  escape  from  the  horror  of  Mendel's  coming  home 
night  after  night  drawn  and  white  with  dissipation,  and 
from  the  dread  of  an  explosion  from  Jacob,  consented, 
and  asked  if  Issy  might  go,  as  that  Rosa  of  his  was  mak- 
ing him  quite  ill. 

For  Golda,  Leah  knew  that  Moscowitsch  would  do  any- 
thing in  the  world,  and  so  she  procured  his  consent  on 
condition  that  he  was  not  expected  to  accompany  them, 
for  he  hated  the  sea,  which  had  made  him  very  ill  when 
he  came  to  England,  and  he  never  wished  to  set  eyes  on 
it  again. 

Leah  already  had  the  address  of  some  lodgings  recom- 
mended to  her  by  a  neighbour.  She  engaged  them,  and 


HETTY  FINCH  99= 


on  a  fine  July  day  went  down  to  Margate  by  the  express 
with  her  children,  Golda,  and  Issy. 

The  lodgings  -were  let  by  a  handsome,  florid  woman 
with  masses  of  bleached  golden  hair,  a  ruddled  complex- 
ion, fat  hands  covered  with  cheap  rings,  plump  wrists  rat- 
tling with  bracelets,  and  a  full  bosom  on  which  brooches 
gleamed.  Leah  thought  her  a  very  fine  woman,  and  was 
so  fascinated  by  her  that  she  stayed  indoors  day  after 
day,  helping  with  the  housework  and  gossiping,  so  that 
she  never  once  saw  the  sea,  except  from  the  train  as  she 
was  leaving.  Mrs.  Finch  was  a  lady,  by  birth,  but  she 
had  been  u'nfortunate.  She  had  an  uncle  in  the  Army 
and  a  cousin  in  the  War  Office,  and  she  had  lived  in  Lon- 
don, in  the  best  part  of  the  town,  where,  in  her  best  days, 
she  had  had  her  flat.  Also  she  had  travelled  and  had 
been  to  Paris  and  Vienna.  But  she  had  been  unfortunate 
in  her  friends.  Leah  commiserated  her,  and,  open- 
mouthed,  gulped  down  all  her  tales  of  the  gentlemen  she 
had  known,  while  Golda,  eager  for  more  information 
of  the  glittering  world  which  had  swallowed  up  her  Men- 
del, listened  too,  fascinated  and  shuddering.  And  Leah, 
to  show  that  she  also  was  a  person  of  some  consequence, 
began  to  talk  of  her  wonderful  brother.  She  told  of  the 
motor-car  which  had  come  and  whirled  him  away,  of  his 
visit  to  the  millionaire's  house,  of  the  fine  friends  he- 
was  making,  of  the  men  and  women  he  knew  whose 
names  were  in  the  papers. 

"Every  day,"  she  said,  "he  is  out  to  tea,  and  every  eve- 
ning he  is  out  at  theatres  and  music-halls  and  parties  and 
flats  and  hotels,  and  his  friends  are  so  rich  that  they  pour 
money  into  his  pockets.  He  just  makes  a  few  lines  on  a 
piece  of  paper  and  they  give  him  twenty  pounds,  or  he 
makes  up  some  paint  to  look  like  a  face  or  a  pineapple 
and  his  pockets  are  full  of  money." 


ioo  MENDEL 


"Yes,"  said  Golda  uneasily.     "He  will  be  very  rich." 

"Then  next  time  you  come  to  Margate,"  said  Mrs. 
Finch,  "it  will  be  the  Cliftonville,  and  you'll  despise  my 
poor  lodgings." 

"Oh  no,"  cried  Leah,  "for  it  is  like  staying  with  a 
friend." 

Every  day  Leah  added  something  to  the  legend  of 
Mendel,  Mrs.  Finch  urging  her  on  with  romances  of  her 
own  splendid  days.  But  the  most  eager  listener  was 
Hetty,  the  girl  who  did  the  rough  work  of  the  house  and 
was  never  properly  dressed  until  the  evening,  because, 
from  the  moment  when  she  woke  up  in  the  morning  until 
after  supper,  she  was  kept  running  hither  and  thither 
at  Mrs.  Finch's  commands.  She  was  sufficiently  like 
Mrs.  Finch  to  justify  Golda  in  her  supposition  that  she 
was  that  fine  woman's  daughter,  but  nothing  was  ever 
said  in  the  matter.  Hetty  did  not  have  her  meals  with 
them,  and,  indeed,  there  was  no  evidence  that  she  had 
any  meals.  In  the  evenings  she  was  allowed  to  go  out, 
and  she  would  come  back  at  half -past  ten  or  so  with  her 
big  eyes  shining  and  a  flush  fading  from  her  cheeks  and 
leaving  them  whiter  than  ever.  Very  big  were  her  eyes, 
very  big  and  pathetic,  and  her  face  was  a  perfect  oval. 
She  had  rather  full  lips,  always  moist  and  red.  During 
the  whole  fortnight  she  never  spoke  a  word  except  to 
Issy.  Indeed,  she  avoided  Golda  and  Leah,  and  she 
alarmed  Issy  by  what  he  took  to  be  her  forwardness, 
when  she  asked  him  to  take  her  to  the  theatre.  He  com- 
plied with  her  request,  but  he  was  much  too  frightened 
of  her  to  speak,  and  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  ex- 
cept to  offer  to  buy  her  chocolates  and  cigarettes,  which 
she  accepted  as  though  it  was  the  natural  thing  for  him 
to  give  her  presents.  She  talked  to  him  about  Mendel, 


HETTY  FINCH  101 


and  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  true  that  he  knew  lords 
and  had  real  gentlemen  to  tea  with  him  in  his  studio. 

"There's  more  goes  on  in  his  studio  than  I  could  tell 
you,"  said  Issy  with  a  dry,  uncomfortable  laugh.  "Art- 
ists, you  know!" 

"Oh  yes!  Artists!"  said  Hetty  with  a  dreamy,  wist- 
ful look  in  her  eyes  as  she  drew  in  her  lower  lip  with  a 
a  slight  sucking  noise.  "I  wish  I  lived  in  London,  I  do. 
Ma  used  to  live  in  London,  but  she's  too  old  now  to  find 
any  one  to  take  her  back  there.  It's  dull  here.  Does 
your  brother  ever  come  to  Margate?" 

"No,"  said  Issy.  "He'd  go  to  Brighton  if  he  went 
anywhere.  I've  got  another  brother  who's  gone  to 
Paris." 

"O-oh!    Paris!    Is  he  rich  too ?" 

"No." 

Issy  shut  up  like  an  oyster.  He  could  feel  the  girl 
probing  into  him,  and  he  was  sorry  he  had  brought  her. 
She  was  spoiling  his  fun,  the  adventures  he  had  prom- 
ised himself  during  his  holiday  from  Rosa's  indefatigable 
attentions.  Hetty  was .  too  dangerous.  He  knew  that 
if  she  got  hold  of  him  she  would  not  let  go. 

He  took  her  home  and  never  spoke  another  word  to 
her  during  the  remainder  of  his  visit,  and  he  said  to  his 
mother  once : — 

"That's  an  awful  girl." 

"Worse  than  Rosa?"  asked  Golda. 

"Rosa  would  stay.  That  girl  would  be  off  like  a  cat 
on  the  tiles." 

Golda  retorted  with  a  description  of  Rosa  of  the  same 
kind,  but  of  a  more  offensive  degree. 

Declaring  that  they  were  better  for  the  sea  air,  and 
warmly  enjoining  Mrs.  Finch  to  visit  them  if  ever  she 
should  come  to  London,  the  party  left  Margate  with  shells 


102  MENDEL 

and  toffee  and  painted  china  for  their  friends  and  rela- 
tions, conspicuous  among  their  luggage  being  the  buckets 
and  spades  which  had  never  been  used. 

As  Issy  and  his  mother  reached  their  front-door,  he 
saw  Rosa  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  bolted  after  her, 
leaving  Golda  to  enter  the  house  and  give  an  account  of 
her  doings.  Mendel,  for  once  in  a  way,  was  at  home. 
He  was  at  work  on  a  picture  for  a  prize  competition  at 
the  Detmold,  as  also  were  Mitchell  and  Weldon,  so  that 
they  were  living  quietly  for  the  time  being.  Golda  gave  a 
glowing  description  of  the  beauties  of  Margate  and  of 
Mrs.  Finch  and  her  jewellery.  She  began  to  talk  of 
Hetty,  but  for  some  reason  unknown  to  herself,  with  a 
glance  at  Mendel  she  stopped,  and  went  off  into  a  vague, 
<lreamy  rhapsody  concerning  Margate  streets. 

"The  streets  are  so  clean,  so  nice,  and  the  air  is  so 
strong,  and  the  sky  is  so  clear,  with  the  clouds  tumbling 
across  it,  little  clouds  like  cotton-wool  and  grey  clouds 
like  blankets,  almost  as  it  was  in  Austria,  and  I  was  so 
happy  my  heart  was  full  of  flowers,  almost  as  it  was  in 
Austria." 

"What's  the  good  of  talking  of  Austria?"  growled 
Jacob.  "There  you  had  a  corner.  Here  you  have  a 
whole  house." 

"But  I  was  happy  there." 

Issy  came  in  on  that  and  announced  that  he  was  going 
to  be  married  to  Rosa.  There  was  half  a  house  vacant 
in  the  next  street,  and  he  proposed  to  take  it. 

"You  shall  not,"  said  Jacob.  "I  will  not  have  that  slut 
in  the  house.  What  sort  of  children  will  she  give  you? 
Squat-browed  and  bow-legged  they  will  be.  How  will 
she  look  after  them?  A  woman  that  cannot  contain  her 
love  for  her  man  will  have  none  for  the  children.  She  is 


HETTY  FINCH  103 


a  dirty  girl,  I  tell  you,  and  so  is  her  mother  and  her 
father's  mother,  and  her  father's  father's  mother." 

"I  don't  know  who  we  are,  to  hold  up  our  heads  so 
high.  You  are  my  father,  but  in  some  things  I  cannot 
obey  you.  The  business  is  mine  .  .  ." 

"It  is  not.  It  is  mine!"  said  Jacob.  "It  is  in  your 
name,  but  it  is  mine.  It  is  in  your  name,  but  your  name 
is  my  name,  and  you  shall  not  give  it  to  a  woman  like 
that,  who  goes  smelling  about  street  corners  like  a  dog. 
Her  father  has  no  money,  and  he  never  goes  to  the 
synagogue." 

"I  am  not  marrying  her  father.  I  shall  go  out  of  the 
business,  then,  and  I  shall  start  for  myself.  Rosa  will 
kill  herself  if  I  do  not  marry  her,  and  I  must  do  it." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Golda  quietly.  "I  think  she  will  kill 
herself." 

Jacob  stormed  on  and  Issy  blustered,  until  at  last  he 
confessed  that  Rosa  had  caught  him,  and  that  he  had  to 
marry  her.  Jacob  threw  up  his  hands  and  in  a  shrill 
voice  of  icy  contempt  told  Issy  exactly  what  he  thought 
of  such  marriages;  they  were  nothing  but  dirt.  .  .  . 
"Because  you  have  a  little  dirt  on  you,  must  you  roll  in 
the  mud?  You  are  like  dirty  dogs,  all  of  you.  You, 
and  Harry,  and  Mendel.  I  don't  know  what  has  come 
to  you  in  this  London.  God  gave  me  one  woman,  and 
1  have  asked  for  nothing  else." 

"You  would  not  let  me  marry  Rosa  when  I  was 
young." 

Words  and  feeling  ran  so  high  that  Mendel,  aghast, 
fled  away  to  his  studio,  where  the  sound  of  the  storm 
reached  him.  It  raged  for  hours,  and  ended  in  Issy  fling- 
ing himself  out  of  the  house  and  slamming  the  door. 

A  week  later  Rosa  was  brought  to  see  Golda,  and  she 
fawned  on  her  like  a  dog  that  has  been  whipped,  sat 


104  MENDEL 


gazing  at  her  with  her  stupid  brown  eyes,  and  whim- 
pered :  "I  should  have  killed  myself.  Yes,  I  should  have 
killed  myself." 

"You  would  not  have  been  so  wicked,"  said  Golda.  "It 
is  sinful  to  throw  good  fish  after  bad.  Can  you  cook?'' 

"Yes,"  said  Rosa.  "I  can  make  cucumber  soup.  I 
could  do  anything  for  Issy,  he  is  so  strong  and  hand- 
some." 

And  Golda  said  to  Mendel  after  the  interview:  "A 
woman  like  that  is  like  a  steam  bath  for  a  man." 

A  few  days  later  Issy  and  Rosa  were  married,  with- 
out ceremony,  without  carriages,  or  photographs,  or 
guests,  or  feast.  It  was  a  wedding  to  be  ashamed  of,  but 
Jacob  would  not,  and  Rosa's  father  could  not,  lay  out  a 
penny  on  it.  The  couple  took  half  the  house  in  the  next 
street,  and  Issy  discovered  at  once  that  he  hated  his 
wife,  and  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  it  either  from  her 
or  from  his  family. 

Mendel  was  profoundly  depressed  by  this  disturbance 
and  plunged  downwards,  for  he  still  half  expected  his 
family  to  rise  with  him.  He  was  to  make  all  their  for- 
tunes, but,  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  he  detested  the 
unhappy  Rosa  and  regarded  her  as  little  short  of  a  crim- 
inal. He  was  depressed,  too,  because  the  summer  holi- 
days were  approaching  and  he  would  be  bereft  of  his 
beloved  Mitchell,  who  was  going  away  for  three  months 
to  the  country.  He  would  be  left  with  his  family,  in 
whom  there  was  no  peace.  Why  could  they  not  be  like 
the  Mitchells  and  the  Weldons,  who  could  live  together 
without  quarrels,  and  could  take  a  happy,  humorous  in- 
terest in  each  other's  doings  without  these  devastating 
passions  and  cursings  and  denunciations  ?  And  yet  when 
he  thought  of  the  Mitchells  and  the  Weldons  and  the 


HETTY  FINCH  105 


Froitzheims,  in  their  charming,  comfortable  houses,  there 
was  something  soft  and  foolish  about  them  all — some- 
times savouring  of  idolatry,  for  instance,  in  the  homage 
Mitchell  paid  his  father,  in  the  assumption  that  Mrs. 
Mitchell  was  a  very  remarkable  woman,  whose  children 
could  not  be  expected  to  be  ordinary.  More  and  more 
did  Mendel  value  his  mother,  who  was  content  to  be  just 
a  woman  and  to  live  without  flattery  of  any  kind,  and  to 
accept  every  one  whom  she  met  and  to  value  them  as 
human  beings,  without  regard  to  their  rank,  station,  pos- 
sessions, or  achievements.  Himself  she  esteemed  no 
more  because  he  was  an  artist,  though  he  had  tried  hard 
to  make  her  give  her  tribute  to  that  side  of  his  nature. 
She  loved  him  simply,  neither  more  for  his  attainments 
nor  less  for  his  doings,  that  pained  her  deeply.  And  that 
direct  human  contact  he  obtained  nowhere  else,  and  in 
no  one  else  could  he  find  it  existing  so  openly  and  frankly. 
Yet  he  loved  the  follies  and  pretences  of  the  outside 
world.  He  adored  theatricality,  and  among  his  polite 
friends  there  was  always  some  drama  towards.  It  was  \f 
never  drowned  in  incoherent  passions,  and  he  himself, 
among  the  nice  cultured  folk,  was  always  a  startling 
dramatic  figure.  Sometimes  they  seemed  to  him  all  sly- 
ness and  insincerity,  and  then  he  loathed  them;  but  that 
was  generally  when  he  had  aimed  at  and  failed  in  some 
dramatic  coup,  or  when  they  had  encouraged  him  to  talk 
about  himself  until  he  bored  them.  On  the  whole,  he 
was  successful  with  them,  as  he  wished  to  be,  easily  and 
without  calculation.  It  was  when  they  made  calculation 
necessary,  by  feigning  an  interest  that  they  did  not  feel, 
that  he  was  shocked  and  angry.  If  anywhere  the  at- 
mosphere was  such  that  he  could  not  be  frank,  then  he 
avoided  that  place  and  those  people. 

Now  he  was  bored,  bored  to  think  of  the  hot  stew- 


io6  MENDEL 


ing  months  with  no  relief  except  such  as  he  could  find 
in  vagrom  adventures  from  the  harsh  rigidity  of  life 
among  his  own  people.  And  he  was  in  a  strange  condi- 
tion of  physical  lassitude.  Even  his  ambition  was  stag- 
nant. In  his  work  he  had  only  the  pleasure  of  dex- 
terity. It  had  no  meaning,  and  contained  no  delight. 
When  he  painted  apples  or  a  dead  bird  or  a  woman, 
the  result  was  just  apples  or  a  dead  bird  or  a  woman. 
The  paint  made  no  difference  and  the  subject  was  still 
better  than  his  rendering  of  it.  He  was  only  concerned 
with  technical  problems.  Fascinated  by  a  gradated  sky 
in  a  picture  in  the  National  Gallery,  he  practised  gradated 
skies  until  he  could  have  done  them  in  his  sleep. 

And  he  was  tired,  tired  in  body  and  in  soul.  Both 
in  his  life  and  in  his  work  he  had  had  to  conquer  a 
convention  in  order  to  keep  his  footing  in  the  world  of 
his  desire.  Just  as  he  had  only  learned  the  Detmold 
style  of  drawing  by  a  supreme  effort  of  will,  so  also 
by  a  tremendous  effort  he  had  learned  the  rudiments 
of  manners  and  polite  conversation.  He  had  had  to 
overcome  his  tendency  to  fall  violently  in  love  with 
every  charming  person,  male  or  female,  he  met,  and 
to  regard  with  an  aversion  equally  violent  those  in  whom 
he  found  no  charm.  Such  charm  must  for  him  be  genu- 
ine and  not  a  matter  of  tricks,  and  for  this  reason  he 
had  regarded  every  person  whom  he  thought  of  as  old 
with  dislike.  For  him  anybody  above  twenty-five  was 
"old."  He  still  thought  he  would  be  made  or  marred 
by  the  time  he  was  twenty-three,  but  that  age  seemed 
immeasurably  far  off.  Long  before  then,  like  a  thunder- 
bolt, his  full  genius  would  descend  upon  him  and  all 
the  world  would  know  his  name.  He  was  almost  inno- 
cent of  conceit  in  this.  Such,  he  believed,  was  the 
history  of  genius,  and  so  far  nothing  had  happened  to 


HETTY  FINCH  107 


deny  his  inward  consciousness  of  his  rarity.  Relieve 
the  pressure  of  circumstance  and  he  soared  upwards. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  queer,  uncomfortable  pleasure  in  such 
thoughts  and  dreams  and  in  imagining  a  fatality  that 
should  drag  him  down  and  down  to  Issy's  level  and  lower. 
There  was  a  sickening  fascination  in  picturing  to  him- 
self a  descent  as  swift  and  irresistible  as  his  upward 
flight.  Yet  dreary  were  the  hours  of  waiting  for  the 
impetus  that  had  once  or  twice  so  freely  and  so  strongly 
moved  in  him.  Sick  with  waiting,  he  would  work  in 
a  fury  to  master  trick  after  trick  and  difficulty  after 
difficulty  in  painting,  so  as  to  be  ready  when  the  time 
came.  All  the  cunning  and  wariness  of  his  race  welled 
up  in  him  as  he  prepared  deliberately,  slowly,  patiently 
for  his  opportunity. 

One  afternoon,  as  Golda  was  sleeping  in  her  kitchen, 
she  was  awakened  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  Going  to 
open  it,  she  found  Hetty  Finch  waiting  there,  neatly  clad 
in  a  brown  tailor-made  coat  and  skirt,  very  smart,  with 
a  trim  little  feathered  hat  on  her  head.  Golda's  thoughts 
flew  to  Mendel,  and  her  first  inclination  was  to  slam 
the  door  in  Hetty's  face,  but,  remembering  that  the  boy 
was  out,  she  admitted  her. 

Hetty  followed  Golda  into  the  kitchen  and  stood 
looking  round  it  with  obvious  disappointment.  She  had 
not  imagined  the  Kiihlers  to  be  so  poor. 

"I  promised  Ma  I  would  call,"  she  said,  taking  the 
chair  which  Golda  dusted  for  her. 

"And  how  is  your  Ma?"  asked  Golda. 

"She's  given  up  the  house  and  gone  into  a  hotel 
as  manageress,"  replied  Hetty,  lying  as  usual,  for  her 
mother  had  been  sold  up  and  had  taken  a  place  as 
barmaid  in  a  tavern.  "And  I've  come  to  London  to 


io8  MENDEL 


earn  my  living.  Ma  gave  me  fourteen  shillings,  and 
that  was  all  she  could  do  for  me.  Still,  I'm  off  her 
hands  now." 

Golda  asked  her  what  she  was  going  to  do,  and  she 
said  she  thought  of  going  into  service  until  she  had 
had  a  look  round.  Where  was  she  living?  She  had 
taken  a  room  with  some  friends,  lodgers  of  Ma's,  off 
Stepney  Green. 

Conversation  was  lifeless  and  desultory  until  Issy 
came  into  the  room,  when  she  brightened  up,  but  he 
was  overcome  with  his  old  terror  of  the  girl  and  soon 
hurried  away.  Then  she  noticed  the  pictures  on  the 
wall  and  asked  if  they  were  Mendel's.  Golda  refused 
flatly  to  talk  about  them,  but  Hetty  persisted  and  would 
talk  of  nothing  else.  Jacob  came  in  and  she  made  him 
talk  about  Mendel,  and  she  made  herself  so  charming 
to  him  and  flattered  his  simple  vanity  so  grossly  that 
presently  Golda  was  staggered  by  the  sight  of  him  mak- 
ing tea  with  his  own  hands  and  pouring  it  out  for  the 
visitor. 

"Yes,"  said  Jacob,  "the  boy  did  all  those  before  he 
was  fourteen.  He  will  get  on,  that  boy.  He  is  bound 
to  get  on,  but  I  shall  not  live  to  see  him  in  his  glory." 

"I  think  they're  lovely,"  said  Hetty,  sipping  her  tea. 
And  she  went  on  chattering  vivaciously  until  Jacob  was 
called  away  to  the  workshop,  when  once  again  con- 
versation became  lifeless  and  desultory.  Golda  made 
one  excuse  after  another  to  try  to  get  rid  of  her,  but 
Hetty  would  not  budge.  At  last  there  came  the  sound, 
of  Mendel's  key  in  the  door.  Golda  bustled  out  of  the 
room  and  whispered  to  him: — 

"You  must  not  come  in.  I  have  visitors  and  there 
are  letters  waiting  for  you  upstairs." 

But  Mendel  had  seen  a  girl  sitting  in  the  kitchen  and 


HETTY  FINCH  109 


he  wanted  to  know  whether  she  was  pretty  or  not.  She 
turned  and  he  saw  that  she  was  charmingly  pretty.  He 
brushed  by  his  mother.  He  felt  at  once  that  he  had  made 
a  good  impression,  and,  indeed,  all  Hetty's  dreams  and 
fancies  were  more  than  realised,  though  she  was  a  little 
affronted  and  disappointed  by  the  poorness  of  his  clothes. 

"It  is   Hetty  Finch,"    said   Golda,   "from  Margate." 

Mendel  had  had  Issy's  account  of  Hetty  and  he  was 
on  his  guard  at  once. 

"Yes.     I've  come  to  live  in  London,"  said  she. 

"I've  never  lived  out  of  it,"  he  answered. 

"I  thought  perhaps,  as  you  know  so  many  people, 
you  could  help  me  to  find  some  work.  There  must  be 
room  somewhere  in  London  for  poor  little  me." 

"I'll  see  about  it,"  said  Mendel,  taking  note  of  her 
features  and  figure,  and  rather  upset  to  find  himself  so 
little  excited  by  her.  Issy  had  given  him  to  imagine 
a  dashing,  overwhelming  woman.  He  only  felt  vaguely 
sorry  for  Hetty  and  a  desire  to  stroke  her,  though  he 
knew  her  at  once  for  what  she  was,  and  how  she  was 
drinking  in  the  strongly  developed  male  in  him.  For 
the  first  time  he  felt  cool  and  detached  in  the  presence 
of  a  woman :  a  deliciously  grown-up  sensation,  and  he 
wanted  more  of  it. 

She  soon  said  she  must  go^  and  in  Golda's  hearing 
he  promised  to  write  to  her,  but  when  he  took  her  to 
the  door  he  asked  her  to  come  to  his  studio,  and  she 
said  she  would  come  the  next  day. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   QUINTETTE 


HE  had  more  of  the  deliciously  grown-up  sensation 
the  next  day,  when  Hetty  came  to  see  him.  She 
was  something  new.  The  girls  of  the  streets  he  knew, 
and  unattainably  above  them  were  the  girls  at  the  school 
and  his  friends'  sisters,  whom  he  called  "top-knots,"  be- 
cause of  the  way  they  did  their  hair.  The  "top-knots" 
were  hardly  female  at  all  to  him,  so  remote  were  they, 
so  entirely  unapproachable;  utterly  different  from  the 
girls  of  the  streets,  who  were  so  accessible  that  he  had 
but  to  hold  out  his  arms  to  find  one  of  them,  as  if 
by  magic,  in  his  grasp.  And  now  Hetty  was  different 
again. 

"You  are  cosy  up  here,"  she  said,  moving  at  once 
to  the  only  comfortable  chair  and  curling  up  in  it.  "Your 
sister  told  me  about  you." 

"Leah?     What  lies  did  she  tell  you?" 

"Well,  I  knew  it  wasn't  all  true,  about  the  money 
you  were  making,  because  you  wouldn't  live  here  if  it 
was  true,  would  you?  But  I  suppose  some  of  your 
friends  make  a  lot  of  money." 

"They're  rich,  some  of  them,"  replied  Mendel,  aghast 
to  find  himself  thinking  coldly  of  his  friends  in  terms 
of  money,  his  mind  rushing  swiftly  between  the  two 

no 


THE  QUINTETTE  ill 

poles  of  his  father  and  Sir  Julius.  "Yes.  There's  plenty 
of  money  in  London." 

"That's  what  Ma  said  when  she  gave  me  the  fourteen 
shillings.  She  said  a  girl  with  eyes  like  mine  had  no 
need  to  go  short  in  London."  Hetty  raised  her  eyes 
and  looked  full  at  him,  who  met  her  stare  boldly  and 
yet  with  some  alarm,  finding  himself  acting  a  part. 

Hetty  was  flattering  him  by  regarding  him  as  the 
possessor  of  a  key  to  the  wealth  of  London,  and  in 
spite  of  himself  he  could  not  help  accepting  the  role. 
She  had  touched  an  element  of  his  character  of  which 
till  then  he  had  been  unconscious.  The  knave  in  him 
sprang  into  being  and  thrust  all  his  other  qualities  aside. 
He  began  to  boast  of  his  success  and  to  swagger  about 
the  luxury  and  immorality  of  London  life,  though  it  was 
not  all  braggadocio,  but  also  a  kindly  desire  to  make 
Hetty  happy  by  talking  to  her  of  the  things  that  interested 
her. 

He  told  her  about  Calthrop  and  the  Paris  Cafe,  and 
Maurice  Birnbaum  and  his  motor-car  and  richly  fur- 
nished flat  in  Westminster,  and  a  Lord's  son  who  was 
at  the  Detmold,  and  Mitchell,  whose  father  was  a  great 
man.  And  all  the  time,  as  he  talked,  he  was  astonished 
at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  so  different  did  it  sound. 

Hetty  wriggled  with  pleasure  in  her  chair  and  pouted 
up  her  lips.  Presently  she  said  her  hat  made  her  head 
ache,  and  she  took  it  off  and  stretched  out  her  arms 
and  said : — 

"No  more  pots  and  pans  for  me!  I  do  think  you're 
lovely.  It's  just  like  a  story.  I  call  that  real  fun.  Not 
like  Margate.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I  could  get  work  as 
a  model,  or  do  you  have  to  be  slap-up?" 

Mendel  thought  of  the  drabs  who  posed  and  he  could 
not  help  smiling. 


112  MENDEL 


"I  could  only  tell  by  your  figure,  though  your  face 
is  all  right." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  pretty?"  she  asked. 

"Very." 

"I'll  show  you  my  figure,  if  you  like." 

"All  right,  I'll  light  the  gas-stove  in  the  bedroom. 
It's  a  little  cold  in  here." 

He  showed  her  into  the  bedroom,  and  when  she  was 
ready  she  called  to  him. 

She  was  beautifully  made,  but  she  looked  so  foolish 
with  her  anxiety  to  please  him  that  he  could  take  hardly 
any  interest  in  her,  and  he  was  distressed,  too,  because 
the  only  background  he  could  give  her  consisted  of  his 
new  knavish  thoughts  of  the  wealth  of  London.  Yet 
nothing  could  disturb  it,  for  the  background  was  suitable. 
Her  white  body  was  her  offering. 

"How  much  would  I  be  paid?" 

"A  shilling  an  hour." 

"Do  you  pay  that?" 

"Yes." 

"If  you  could  get  me  work  I  would  sit  to  you  for 
nothing." 

"I'd  pay  you,"  he  said.  His  generous  qualities  strove 
hard  to  reassert  themselves,  but  there  was  something 
about  this  girl  that  compelled  just  what  he  was  giving 
her — hardness  for  hardness,  value  for  value.  Yet  she 
was  certainly  beautiful,  and  it  was  strange  to  him  to 
be  unable  to  give  her  the  warm  homage  that  within 
himself  he  could  not  help  feeling. 

She  sat  on  the  bed,  making  no  move  to  cover  herself, 
and  said : — 

"Artists  are  different.  There  was  an  artist  once  at 
Margate.  It  was  him  put  the  idea  into  my  head.  But 
he  was  very  poor  and  not  a  gentleman." 


THE  QUINTETTE  113 

And  now  to  Mendel  she  was  an  object  of  sheer  as- 
tonishment. He  stood  and  warmed  his  legs  by  the  gas 
stove  and  gaped  at  her,  sitting  on  his  bed  and  chattering 
in  her  clear,  hard  voice  of  her  ambitions,  her  dreams, 
the  drudgery  at  home,  while  in  everything  she  said  was 
a  flattery  which  he  could  not  resist.  Worst  of  all,  he 
felt  that  he  was  one  of  a  pair  with  her.  His  talent,  her 
body,  were  shining  offerings  with  which  they  both 
emerged  from  the  depths  of  the  despised.  Entering  into 
her  spirit,  he  too  was  rilled  with  a  desire  for  revenge. 
Yet  in  him  this  desire  was  charged  with  passion,  which 
made  their  present  situation  ridiculous.  He  thought  of 
the  poverty  and  the  obscure  suffering  downstairs,  the 
dragging  penury  to  which,  but  for  his  talent,  he  would 
have  been  condemned.  Then  he  imagined  her  as  Issy  had 
described  her  at  Margate,  lurking  in  the  kitchen,  listen- 
ing behind  the  door  as  Leah  spun  her  yarns.  He  could 
sympathise  with  her,  and  she  seemed  to  him  almost  gal- 
lant. 

He  got  out  a  piece  of  mill-board  and  began  to  draw 
her,  but  to  his  annoyance  could  not  get  interested  in 
what  he  was  doing.  He  wanted  to  know  more  about 
her,  could  not  rest  content  that  a  human  being  should 
be  so  reduced  to  a  cold  purpose.  Yet,  though  she  talked 
freely  enough,  nothing  fell  from  her  lips  to  meet  his 
desire.  She  had  no  people,  no  class,  no  tradition,  but 
still  she  was  a  person.  He  could  not  dismiss  her  as 
he  dismissed  so  many,  as  "nonsensical." 

"I  can't  make  much  of  you  now,"  he  said,  almost  wail- 
ing. "I  believe  I'm  tired." 

And  suddenly  he  hurled  away  his  drawing  and  rushed 
at  her  and  kissed  her.  She  clung  to  him  and  he  yielded 
to  her  will,  seeing  clearly  that  this  was  her  purpose,  this 
her  desire,  this  her  ambition,  her  all. 


114  MENDEL 


He  knew  that  she  was  using  him,  was  making  cer- 
tain of  being  able  to  use  him.  The  newly  discovered 
knave  in  him  insisted  on  having  his  existence,  and 
through  it  he  enjoyed  a  certain  defiant  happiness. 

Happiness!  To  be  happy!  That  had  seemed  impos- 
sible. His  first  year  at  the  Detmold  had  been  miserable. 
He  had  been  discouraged  and  almost  listless.  Often 
he  would  go  to  his  mother  and  say:  "I  shall  never  be 
an  artist." 

"Not  all  at  once,"  Golda  would  say.  "Take  a  boy 
who  is  apprenticed  to  a  bootmaker.  He  cannot  all  at 
once  make  good  boots.  He  must  spoil  a  deal  of  leather 
first.  Or  a  tailor-boy :  he  must  spoil  cloth.  A  trade 
must  be  learned,  and  you  can  learn  this,  for  you  work 
hard  enough  at  it." 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  would  see  through  her  clear 
eyes  and  that  was  enough  to  set  him  working  again,  half 
believing  that  he  would  soon  master  his  craft.  But  there 
had  been  the  struggle  to  master  what  at  the  Detmold, 
with  such  unquestionable  authority,  they  called  "draw- 
ing." 

This  now,  with  Hetty,  was  in  its  way  happiness,  though 
he  detested  it  and  her.  It  was  an  escape.  It  was  easy. 
It  made  no  demands  on  him,  save  the  small  effort  to 
achieve  self-forgetfulness,  and  in  that  she  aided  him, 
for  she  seemed  superior  to  himself  and  enviable  in  the 
clearness  of  her  purpose.  She  offered  herself  and  made 
no  demands  upon  him  except  of  what  could  cost  him 
nothing:  just  a  few  words  to  his  friends,  a  start  in  her 
chosen  profession. 

All  the  same,  he  was  horrified  at  himself.  Every 
other  crisis  and  sudden  change  in  his  life  had  been  at- 
tended with  violent  suffering,  an  eruption  within  him- 
self, profound  depression,  almost  a  collapse.  This  had 


THE  QUINTETTE  115 

been  as  easy  as  walking  through  a  door,  a  slipping  from 
one  part  of  his  being  to  another.  .  .  .  Here  suddenly 
was  happiness,  a  queer  detached,  almost  indifferent  con- 
dition, full  of  pleasure,  and  he  rejoiced  in  the  novelty 
of  it.  He  watched  Hetty  draw  on  her  clothes  again  and 
was  sickened  by  the  sensual  languor  of  her  movements. 
She  was  drowsy,  like  a  cat  before  a  fire. 

"No,  I  certainly  shan't  draw  you  to-day." 

"What  about  to-morrow?" 

"I  shall  be  painting  to-morrow." 

"I  do  think  you're  a  devil  sometimes." 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  Paris  Cafe,  if  you  like." 

"Will  you?" 

She  perked  up  on  that.  She  had  not  expected  so 
soon  to  gain  her  desire. 

"Yes.  If  you've  got  to  earn  your  living  you  should 
meet  people,  and  the  sooner  you  get  going  the  better." 

Hetty  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  hands,  crouched  in 
elation.  Everything  had  turned  out  as  she  had  hoped 
and  planned,  as  she  had  willed  that  it  should,  and  she 
regarded  him  with  some  contempt  because  he  had  been 
so  easy  and  because  he  was  so  young.  She  was  the 
same  age  as  he,  but  she  thought  him  a  little  vain  boy. 
Yet  when  he  looked  at  her  she  was  afraid  of  him,  for 
he  knew  so  much  and  guessed  so  much  more.  To 
defend  herself,  her  instinct  drove  through  to  his  vanity 
and  flattered  it  to  blind  him.  She  feigned  an  anima- 
tion she  was  incapable  of  feeling  to  make  herself  more 
beautiful  in  his  eyes,  and  he  thought  of  his  friends, 
Mitchell  and  Weldon,  and  how  they  would  be  stirred 
with  her.  He  thought  how  she  would  please  Calthrop, 
and  he  was  lured  into  believing  that  he  would  gain  in 
importance  through  her. 


ii6  MENDEL 


"You've  come  at  a  very  bad  time,"  he  said.  "They'll 
all  be  going  away  for  the  summer." 

"Oh!"  she  looked  dashed,  hating  to  be  caught  out  in 
a  mistake.  "Do  they  go  away  for  long?" 

"Three  months." 

"Oh,  well !"  she  drawled.  "I  can  get  a  place  if  noth- 
ing turns  up.  But  something  always  does  turn  up.  I'm 
one  of  the  lucky  ones,  you  know." 

"I  don't  believe  in  luck,"  said  he,  with  a  sudden  irrup- 
tion of  the  old  self  that  seemed  to  have  been  left  so  far 
behind. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said. 

They  groped  their  way  down  the  dark  stairs,  and 
he  went  out  with  her,  feeling  that  he  could  not  face  his 
family,  from  whom  he  knew  now  that  his  face  was 
turned.  In  the  street  a  mood  of  freedom  and  adventure 
came  over  him,  and  for  this  mood  she  was  a  fitting 
mate.  He  took  her  on  the  top  of  a  bus  to  the  West  End, 
among  the  promenading  crowds,  and  she  drank  it  all  in 
with  a  kind  of  exaltation,  her  big  eyes  glowing,  her  body 
trembling  with  excitement.  Into  one  cafe  after  another 
he  led  her,  completely  absorbed  as  he  was  in  her  pur- 
pose, and  at  last,  when  they  mounted  the  eastward  bus, 
she  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  could  hear 
her  murmuring  to  herself :  "London  .  .  .  London  .  .  . 
London." 

He  too  was  thrilled  as  he  had  never  been  before  by 
London.  He  had  never  so  strongly  realised  it  before. 
The  great  city  had  thrilled  him  with  its  beauty  and 
had  stirred  him  with  its  business,  but  never  before  had 
its  spirit  crept  into  his  blood  to  send  it  whirling  and 
singing  through  his  veins.  He  hardly  slept  at  all  that 
night,  and  the  next  morning  it  was  a  long  time  before 
he  could  begin  to  work,  which  then  seemed  far  re- 


THE  QUINTETTE  117 

moved  from  the  effort  and  almost  anguish  it  used  to 
cost  him.  The  still-life  with  which  he  had  been  wrestling 
became  quite  easy  to  do,  and  very  soothing  was  the 
handling  of  brushes  and  paint.  Every  touch  was  like 
a  caress  upon  his  aching  soul. 

So  began  a  period  of  real  happiness.  The  pieces  he 
painted  with  such  soothing  ease  were  generally  admired 
and  readily  bought.  The  dealer  to  whom  he  took  them 
was  also  a  colourman  and  gave  him  apparently  unlim- 
ited credit;  and  he  laid  in  an  immense  stock  of  colours 
and  amused  himself  with  experiments.  It  seemed  that 
his  career  was  to  be  successful  without  a  struggle.  His 
patrons  were  delighted  to  find  him  so  soon  making 
money,  and  the  Birnbaums  and  the  Fleischmanns  invited 
him  down  into  the  country,  but  as  he  found  that  they 
put  him  up  in  a  servant's  bedroom  or  a  gardener's  cot- 
tage he  refused  to  go  more  than  once,  or  to  any  more 
of  their  kind  who  were  not  prepared  to  forget  his  pov- 
erty. 

He  would  rather  stay  in  London  with  Hetty,  whom  he 
had  begun  to  regard  as  a  mascot.  With  her  coming 
everything  had  changed.  She  had  made  everything  easy 
and  happy  and  delightful.  He  had  no  love  for  her,  but 
he  could  not  help  feeling  grateful.  She  had  turned 
work  into  a  pleasure,  pleasure  into  a  riot  of  ecstasy. 

Alone  with  her  in  the  evenings  or  with  some  chance 
acquaintance,  during  the  holidays  he  roamed  through 
London,  basking  in  the  summer  evenings,  discovering 
unimagined  splendours,  the  Parks,  the  river,  the  Zoo, 
boating  on  the  Serpentine,  the  promenade  on  the  ro- 
mantic Spaniard's  Road  at  Hampstead.  Nearly  every 
night  he  wrote  to  Mitchell  in  the  country,  describing  his 
new  easy  happiness  in  his  work  and  his  discovery  of 
the  charm  of  nights  in  London.  And  once  a  week 


1 18  MENDEL 


Mitchell  would  write  to  him  and  give  him  a  delightful 
account  of  English  country  life  in  a  valley,  shut  in  by 
rolling  hills  between  which  wandered  a  slow,  pleasant 
stream.  Here  Mitchell  was  painting,  boating,  playing 
tennis,  making  love. 

"There's  a  Detmold  girl  lives  near  here  with  her  peo- 
ple— Greta  Morrison.  You  ma'y  remember  her — glori- 
ous chestnut  hair,  big  blue  eyes,  but  as  shy  as  a  little 
mouse.  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  her  until  I  began 
to  talk  about  you,  and  there's  no  end  to  her  appetite 
for  that.  I  don't  mince  matters.  I  tell  her  exactly  what 
you  are,  exactly  what  you  come  from,  and  what  a  wild 
beast  you  are.  She  has  seen  you  throw  things  about 
at  the  Detmold,  and  she  seems  absolutely  to  like  it. 
Yet  she  is  not  a  fool,  and  I  like  her  enormously.  She 
makes  me  feel  what  a  rotter  I  am,  but  I  can't  get  on 
with  her  unless  I  talk  about  you.  I  have  heard  that 
her  work  is  good,  but  she  won't  show  me  a  thing." 

Mendel  was  pleased  that  a  "top-knot"  should  be  in- 
terested in  him,  but  beyond  the  flicker  of  delight  he 
gave  no  thought  to  the  idea  of  Greta  Morrison.  The 
"top-knots"  belonged  to  the  world  which  he  was  going 
to  despoil  with  Hetty  Finch.  That  world  must  dis- 
gorge. It  had  condemned,  and  still  condemned,  his 
father  and  mother  to  bitter  poverty,  and  he  remembered 
how  on  their  first  coming  to  London  the  whole  family 
had  slept  in  one  room,  and  how  he  had  sat  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  looked  at  the  recumbent  bodies 
and  suffered  under  the  indignity  of  it.  And  his  brothers 
had  grown  from  ruddy,  bronzed  boys  into  pale-faced, 
worn  young  men.  And  behind  Hetty  was  the  dirty 
lodging-house  and  her  Ma,  of  whom  he  had  a  very  clear 
idea.  He  used  to  wax  violent,  and  his  imagination  would 


THE  QUINTETTE  119 

run  riot  with  the  fantastic  visions  of  success  he  con- 
jured up. 

Who  were  the  "top-knots"  that  they  should  have  an 
easy,  pleasant  time  in  the  country  while  he  was  left  to 
stew  in  London? 

Hetty  began  genuinely  to  admire  him,  and  her  flat- 
tery was  no  longer  empty.  There  was  some  sustenance 
in  it. 

"O— oh !"  she  used  to  say.  "You'll  get  on.  There's 
no  doubt  about  that.  You'll  have  a  big  stoodio  and 
the  nobs  will  come  up  in  their  motor-cars,  and  you'll  be 
able  to  paint  what  you  like  then." 

"You're  a  liar,"  he  would  reply.  "I  shall  always 
paint  what  I  like.  I  never  do  anything  else,  and  never 
will.  Once  paint  for  the  fools  and  you  have  to  do  it 
always,  because  you  become  a  fool  yourself." 

Golda  once  met  Hetty  coming  down  the  stairs.  She 
told  her  she  was  a  dirty  slut  and  was  not  to  show  her 
face  inside  the  house  again.  A  few  days  later  she 
saw  her  open  the  front  door  and  slip  out.  In  her  anger 
she  informed  Jacob  of  the  danger  to  Mendel,  and  Jacob 
went  up  to  the  studio. 

"I  will  not  have  that  harlot  in  my  house,"  he  said. 

"She  is  not  a  harlot,"  replied  Mendel  rather  shakily, 
for,  though  his  father's  power  had  dwindled,  yet  he  was 
still  a  figure  of  authority. 

"She  is  a  harlot  and  a  daughter  of  a  harlot,  and  I 
will  not  have  her  in  my  house." 

"She  is  a  model,  and  I  must  have  models,  as  I  have 
tried  to  explain  to  you  again  and  again.  I  am  al- 
lowed money  for  models.  I  must  have  models,  just  as 
you  must  have  skins." 


120  MENDEL 


"Then  there  are  other  models.  I  know  this  girl,  what 
she  is  after,  and  she  will  ruin  you." 

"Neither  she  nor  any  one  else  in  the  whole  world 
could  ruin  me,"  said  Mendel,  "for  I  am  an  artist,  and 
while  I  have  my  art  I  ask  nothing  outside  it." 

"Don't  argue  with  me!"  shouted  Jacob.  "I  will  not 
have  that  drab  in  my  house." 

Mendel  had  a  great  respect  and  regard  for  his  father. 
He  was  silent,  and  Jacob  went  downstairs,  satisfied  that 
he  had  asserted  himself. 

He  said  to  Golda  : — 

"They  will  blow  the  boy's  head  off  his  shoulders  with 
the  fuss  they  make  of  him.  I  know  how  to  take  him 
down  a  peg  or  two." 

"Don't  go  too  far,"  said  Golda.  "It  would  be  a  black 
day  for  me  if  he  went  away  and  was  ashamed  of  us." 

"If  I  saw  that  he  was  ashamed  of  you,"  replied  Ja- 
cob, "I  would  thrash  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life. 
Ashamed  of  you,  among  all  the  dirt  and  trumped-up 
people  he  goes  among!" 

However,  Hetty  still  came  to  the  studio  and  there 
were  frequent  explosions,  until  at  last  Mendel,  intent 
on  the  new  independence  he  had  won,  declared  that  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  he  arranged  with  Issy  to 
take  the  top  floor  of  his  house  and  to  turn  that  into 
a  studio.  This  compromise  was  successful,  and  pleased 
both  parties:  Golda  was  happy  to  be  relieved  from  fur- 
ther friction  and  Mendel  was  glad  to  be  away,  for  he 
knew  that  his  doings  must  hurt  her,  and  that  he  hated. 
Yet  he  could  see  no  way  out  of  it.  He  was  done  for 
ever  with  the  old  simplicity  of  his  untutored  painting 
in  her  kitchen.  Art  was  no  longer  a  pure  and  hardly- 
won  joy.  It  was  a  trade,  like  any  other,  and,  like 
any  other,  it  had  its  sordid  aspect,  and,  to  compensate 


THE  QUINTETTE  121 

for  that,  it  was  a  career  and  could  also  be  a  triumph. 
These  things  he  did  not  expect  his  mother  to  understand. 
He  had  Mitchell  to  talk  to  now,  Mitchell  to  whom  to 
impart  the  burden  upon  his  soul,  and  Mitchell  and  he 
were  to  work  together  and  to  give  to  the  world  such 
art  as  it  had  never  seen  since  the  primitives. 

Mitchell  and  he!  That  friendship  was  the  source  of 
his  new  confidence.  Golda  had  been  and  still  was  much 
to  him,  but  when  it  came  to  painting  she  knew  nothing 
at  all,  and  painting  was  the  important  thing.  Through 
painting  lay  not  only  satisfied  ambitions  and  fame  and 
riches,  but  life  itself,  and  of  that  what  could  Golda 
know? 

It  was  a  great  thing,  therefore,  to  be  established  away 
from  home  when  Mitchell  returned  from  the  country. 
And  Mitchell  approved.  He  had  suffered  from  being 
under  his  father's  shadow,  and  with  Weldon  and  Kessler 
he  had  taken  a  studio  near  Fitzroy  Square.  He  said : — ' 

"A  time  will  come  when  you  will  have  to  leave  the 
East  End." 

"I  shall  never  leave  them,"  replied  Mendel.     "What     ./ 
I  want  to  paint  is  there.     They  are  my  people,  and  all 
that  I  have  belongs  to  them." 

"Rubbish.  You'll  soon  be  getting  commissions,  and 
you  can't  ask  people  who  can  afford  to  pay  for  por- 
traits to  a  hole  like  that." 

"They  will  come  to  my  studio,"  said  Mendel,  "or  I 
will  not  take  their  commissions." 

Though  Mitchell  was  rather  shocked  by  his  frank 
conceit,  he  could  not  but  admire  and  envy  the  way  his 
impulses  came  rushing  to  the  surface  and  were  never 
deterred  by  considerations  as  to  the  impression  he  might 
be  making.  Mendel  trusted  Mitchell  absolutely  and  hid 
nothing  from  him,  neither  the  most  scabrous  of  his  deeds 


122  MENDEL 


nor  the  most  childish  of  his  desires.  He  made  no  secret 
of  the  new  manly  feeling  that  had  come  to  him  through 
Hetty,  the  conviction  that  he  could  meet  the  West  End 
on  its  own  terms. 

When  he  showed  Mitchell  the  work  he  had  done  dur- 
ing the  holidays,  his  friend  said : — 

"Gawd!  The  difference  is  absolutely  startling. 
There's  charm  in  every  one  of  them,  and  they're  not 
fakes  either." 

With  Hetty  he  was  enraptured. 

"Gawd!"  he  said;  "I'll  give  ten  years  to  painting  her, 
as  Leonardo  did  to  Monna  Lisa,  and  then  it  would  not 
be  finished.  Came  from  a  Margate  lodging-house,  did 
she?  Mark  my  words:  she'll  marry  a  successful  artist 
and  queen  it  among  the  best." 

With  Mitchell,  Hetty  put  forth  all  her  cajolery  when 
she  found  that  he  knew  what  she  thought  good  peo- 
ple. She  could  look  very  pathetic  and  delicate,  and 
middle-aged  artists  were  sorry  for  her,  and  thought 
being  a  model  a  perilous  profession  for  her.  One  of  them 
warned  her  of  the  dangers  she  must  run,  and  especially 
mentioned  Mitchell  and  Kiihler  as  young  men  to  be 
avoided.  They  roared  with  laughter  when  she  told  them. 

The  Paris  Cafe  was  Paradise  to  her,  and  she  made 
friends  with  all  its  habitues  and  attracted  the  attention 
of  Calthrop,  who  became  Mendel's  enemy  for  life  when 
she  told  him  that  the  youngster  had  said  of  him  that 
he  had  been  a  good  artist  once,  but  was  now  only  re- 
peating himself. 

Mith  marvellous  rapidity  she  picked  up  the  jargon 
of  the  place,  and  could  quite  easily  have  taken  her 
career  in  her  own  hands,  but  she  would  not  surrender 
Mendel,  who  could  no  more  do  without  her  than  he 
could  without  Mitchell.  She  clung  to  him  and  kept  him 


THE  QUINTETTE  123 

a  happy  slave  to  his  three  friends,  to  whom  she  devoted 
herself  as  though  her  existence  depended  on  the  solidarity 
of  the  group.  From  morning  to  night  she  was  with  one 
or  other  of  them,  and  every  evening  with  the  four  of 
them  at  the  Paris,  or  making  a  row  at  a  music-hall  and 
getting  themselves  kicked  out. 

She  was  learning  her  trade  as  they  were  learning 
theirs,  and  she  was  delighted  with  the  ease  with  which 
Mendel  picked  up  what  she  called  "sense";  that  is  to 
say,  he  became  much  more  like  the  others,  affected  their 
speech,  grew  his  hair  long,  wore  corduroys,  a  black  shirt, 
and  a  red  sash,  and  talked  blatantly  and  with  a  slight 
contempt  of  great  painters.  But  even  so,  he  was  dis- 
turbing, for  he  did  all  these  things  with  passion,  so 
that  they  tinged  his  soul,  and  were  not  as  a  mere  gar- 
ment upon  it.  Even  in  falsehood  he  was  sincere. 

When.  Hetty  found  Calthrop  painting  a  self-portrait, 
she  set  her  four  boys  painting  self-portraits,  and  when 
she  found  the  older  men  talking  about  the  beauty  of 
roofs  and  chimneys,  the  four  were  soon  ecstatic  about 
roofs  and  chimneys,  and  painting  them  without  know- 
ing how  it  had  come  about.  She  could  feel  what  was 
in  the  air,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  making  them  con- 
form to  it,  so  that  they  were  successful  even  while  they 
were  students,  and  were  talked  of  and  discussed  and 
approached  by  dealers  as  though  they  were  persons  of 
consequence.  Their  life  was  one  long  intoxication : 
money,  praise,  wine,  and  debauchery  went  to  their  heads, 
and  of  all  these  excitants  Mendel  had  the  largest  share, 
and  found  himself  the  equal  even  of  Kessler,  whose 
father  was  a  millionaire  soap-boiler.  He  attained  an 
extraordinary  skill  at  doing  what  was  expected  of  him, 
and  developed  an  instinct  as  sharp  as  Hetty's  for  the 
success  of  the  moment  after  next. 


124  MENDEL 


He  won  scholarships  at  the  Detmold  and,  carefully 
adapting  his  style,  an  open  prize  at  the  Royal  Academy. 
His  patrons  were  excited  and  delighted.  He  was  in- 
terviewed by  the  Yiddish  papers  and  photographed,  pa- 
lette and  brushes  in  hand,  in  a  dashing  attitude.  He 
said  many  foolish  things  to  the  reporters,  but  the  printed 
version  made  him  blush.  He  was  represented  as  saying 
that  art  had  been  reborn  during  the  last  ten  years,  that 
the  Royal  Academy  was  exploded  and  would  soon  close 
its  doors,  that  there  was  no  art  criticism  in  England, 
that  there  had  never  been  a  great  Jewish  artist,  and 
that  this  deficiency  in  the  most  vital  and  enduring  race 
in  the  world  would  now  be  repaired. 

He  thanked  his  stars  that  his  friends  could  not  read 
Yiddish.  Two  well-known  Jewish  painters  wrote  to  the 
paper  to  say  that  they  existed  and  to  trounce  his  "bump- 
tious and  ignorant  dismissal  of  respected  and  respectable 
art."  And  he  heartily  agreed  with  them.  He  was  shaken 
out  of  the  hectic  dreams  of  months,  yet  could  not  feel 
or  see  clearly.  His  way  was  with  Mitchell,  and  Mitchell 
was  generously  rejoicing  in  it  all  as  though  it  had  hap- 
pened to  himself,  while  Hetty  was  going  from  studio 
to  studio  spreading  the  news  and  declaring  the  arrival 
of  a  genius. 

He  wanted  to  go  and  hide  his  face  in  his  mother's 
skirts,  but  she  was  so  happy  and  elated  with  the  con- 
gratulations of  the  neighbours  and  visits  from  the  Rabbis 
of  the  synagogue  that  he  could  not  but  keep  up  his  part 
before  her.  For  her  and  for  all  his  family  he  bought 
extravagant  presents,  and  he  went  out  and  sought  Artie 
Beech,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  and  gave  him 
a  box  of  cigars.  He  had  a  melancholy  idea  that  he 
was  doing  them  all  an  injury  and  that  he  must  somehow 
repair  it.  The  exact  nature  of  the  injury  he  did  not 


THE  QUINTETTE  125 

know,  but  his  instinct  was  very  sure  that  the  whole 
business  was  false.  Yet  it  was  so  actual  that  he  could 
not  help  believing  in  it.  He  was  hypnotised  into  ac- 
cepting it.  There  seemed  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
go  on  for  ever.  Here,  apparently,  was  what  he  had 
always  striven  for — art  and  homage — and  the  idea  that 
they  could  go  on  for  ever  was  terrible  and  paralysing. 
But  there  was  not  a  soul  in  the  world  with  whom  he 
could  share  his  feeling.  If  he  showed  the  least  hesita- 
tion they  would  accuse  him  of  ingratitude. 

He  was  filled  with  a  smouldering  rage  against  them 
all  which  found  no  vent  until  Maurice  Birnbaum  came 
in  his  motor-car  and  asked  him  to  bring  some  of  his 
things  to  show  Sir  William  Hunslet,  R.A.,  who  had 
been  much  impressed  with  his  prize  picture.  Once  again 
Mendel  climbed  into  the  motor-car,  and  once  again  he 
was  told  not  to  let  his  parcel  scratch  the  paint. 

"Now,"  said  Maurice,  "you  have  the  world  at  your 
feet,  and  I  feel  proud  to  have  had  my  share  in  bring- 
ing it  about.  You  can  have  everything  you  want,  and 
if  you  don't  grow  into  something  really  big  it  won't  be 
our  fault.  Everything  that  money  can  do  it  shall  do." 

The  car  rolled  through  the  streets  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  Mendel's  happy  rambles,  but  being  car- 
ried through  them  in  such  magnificence  made  him  feel 
helpless,  a  victim  to  something  stronger  than  his  own 
will  and  that  he  had  always  detested.  He  was  being 
taken  away  from  his  mother  and  from  Mitchell,  and 
he  knew  whither  motor-cars  were  driven.  All  roads 
ended  in  Sir  Julius,  who  could  sit  and  look  at  pictures 
without  a  word.  Everything  went  spinning  past  him. 
This  was  going  too  fast,  too  fast,  and  he  would  be  ex- 
hausted before  he  had  really  known  his  purpose.  Maur- 
ice Birnbaum's  exciting,  patronising  tones,  chattering  on 


126  MENDEL 


exasperatingly,  infuriated  him,  until  he  felt  like  stab- 
bing him  in  his  already  dropping  stomach.  What  could 
a  fat  man  like  that  have  to  do  with  art?  How  could 
so  fat  a  man  drive  down  to  the  wretched  poverty  in 
Whitechapel  and  not  feel  ashamed? 

But  in  spite  of  himself  and  his  confused  emotions 
Mendel  enjoyed  the  drive,  which  showed  him  more  of 
London  than  the  narrowed  area  he  frequented :  more  to 
conquer,  more  to  know;  shops,  strange  ugly  buildings, 
polite,  mincing  people,  women  like  dolls,  men  like  mari- 
onettes, wide  streets  and  plane-trees,  the  gardens  and 
squares  of  the  polite  Southwest.  Often  there  were  Geor- 
gian houses  like  that  in  which  his  family  lived,  but  so 
neat  and  trim  and  newly  painted  that  they  looked  like 
doll's-houses,  proper  places  for  the  dolls  and  the  mari- 
onettes. .  .  .  And  it  was  exhilarating  to  be  in  the  heart 
of  the  roaring  traffic,  bearing  down  upon  scarlet  buses, 
and  swift  darting  taxi-cabs  and  motor-cars  as  rich  as 
Maurice  Birnbaum's.  Out  of  the  traffic  they  turned  sud- 
denly into  a  quiet  street  of  dead  houses  and  vast  gloomy 
piles  of  flats.  Outside  a  house  more  gloomy  than  the 
rest  they  stopped.  Maurice  got  out  fussily,  told  Men- 
del to  be  careful  how  he  lifted  his  parcel  out,  fussed 
his  way  into  the  house  through  a  dark,  luxuriously  fur- 
nished hall,  and  into  a  vast  studio  where  there  was  a 
group  of  fashionably  dressed  women  taking  tea  with  Sir 
William  and  exclaiming  about  the  beauties  of  a  portrait 
that  stood  on  the  easel. 

Maurice  stood  awkwardly  outside  the  circle  and  mut- 
tered apologies,  while  Mendel  felt  utterly  and  crushingly 
foreign  to  the  atmosphere  of  the  place.  He  knew  how 
these  people  would  regard  him.  They  would  stare  at 
him  with  a  cold  interest  not  unmingled  with  horror,  and 
he  would  be  conscious  of  bearing  the  marks  of  the  place 


THE  QUINTETTE  127 

he  came  from,  of  smelling  of  the  gutter.  Against  that 
separation  even  art  was  powerless.  And  what  had  his 
work  to  do  with  this  huge,  hard,  brilliant  portrait  on 
the  easel?  If  they  admired  that  they  would  never  look 
at  his  dark  little  pictures. 

Sir  William  introduced  Maurice  to  the  ladies,  but 
did  not  so  much  as  look  at  the  boy,  whom  his  mind  had 
at  once  ticked  off  as  a  "student,"  and  therefore  to  be 
kept  in  his  place.  Maurice  explained  spluttering :  words 
like  "scholarship,"  "prize,"  "genius,"  "instinct,"  fell  in 
a  shower  from  his  lips,  and  one  of  the  ladies  put  up 
her  lorgnette  and  stared  at  Mendel  as  though  he  were 
a  picture  or  a  wax  model. 

At  last  he  was  told  to  untie  his  parcel,  and  one  by 
one  he  showed  his  pictures.  Sir  William  blew  out  his 
chest  and  his  cheeks,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  blurted 
out  one  word : — 

"Italy." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  said  Maurice. 

Mendel  scented  danger.  They  seemed  to  him  to  be 
conspiring  together. 

"Italy!"  ejaculated  Sir  William.  "Italy!  Blue  skies, 
the  sun,  the  light.  Give  him  light  and  landscape  with 
form  in  it." 

"Am  I  ill?"  thought  Mendel  with  some  alarm,  for 
Sir  William  sounded  to  him  more  like  a  doctor  than  a 
painter.  And  he  decided  that  the  Academician  was 
not  a  real  artist  because  he  showed  no  sign  of  the  fellow- 
feeling  which  had  been  so  strong  in  Mr.  Froitzheim. 

Before  the  ladies  he  could  say  nothing.  He  put 
his  pictures  back  in  the  parcel  and  heard  Maurice  and 
Sir  William  still  conspiring  together  to  send  him  to  Italy. 
He  was  tired  of  being  swung  from  one  idea  to  an- 
other. At  the  Polytechnic  they  had  told  him  that  the 


128  MENDEL 


essential  thing  in  a  picture  was  "tone,"  that  he  must 
remember  the  existence  of  the  atmosphere  between  him- 
self and  the  object  he  was  painting,  and  that  there  were 
no  bright  colours  in  nature.  At  the  Detmold  little  was 
said  about  "tone,"  but  he  was  told  that  the  essence  of 
a  picture  was  drawing,  "the  expression  of  form."  .  .  . 
What  next?  He  had  a  foreboding  that  Italy  was  only 
another  name  for  another  essence  of  a  picture.  Besides, 
he  wanted  to  live.  Though  he  adored  art,  yet  it  did  not 
contain  all  that  was  precious  to  him — liberty  and  gaiety, 
friendship  and  affection.  Always  until  the  Detmold  his 
life  had  been  weighed  down  with  poverty  and  with  ter- 
rible obsessions  like  that  of  his  dread  of  the  fat,  curly- 
headed  boy  who,  during  the  six  long  years  of  his  school- 
ing, had  waited  for  him  outside  the  school-gates  every 
day  to  give  him  a  coward's  blow  and  to  challenge  him 
to  fight  and  to  jeer  at  him  if  he  refused.  There  had 
been  furious,  passionate  loves  to  set  him  reeling,  gusts 
of  inexplicable  desires  and  ambitions  which  had  often 
made  him  weep  with  pain.  And  now,  just  as  the  world 
was  opening  out  before  him  and  he  was  warm  with  the 
friendship  of  an  Englishman  (for  he  was  proud  of 
Mitchell's  Public  School  training),  they  wished  to  take 
him  away  and  send  him  to  a  far  country. 

He  had  hac  enough  ol  being  a  foreigner  in  England, 
and  he  loathed  the  idea  of  travel.  His  .father  had  told 
him  that  England  was  the  best  country  in  the  world, 
and,  if  he  had  suffered  so  much  there,  what  would  it  be 
in  others?  Italy?  He  wanted  to  paint  what  he  had 
always  painted,  fish  and  onions  in  a  London  kitchen. 
How  could  Italy  help  him  to  do  that? 

He  would  not  go.  He  would  refuse  to  go.  These 
Birnbaums  and  Fleischmanns  had  had  their  way  with 
him  for  long  enough. 


THE  QUINTETTE  129 

So  lost  was  he  in  this  growing  revolt  that  he  was 
already  some  distance  away  from  Sir  William's  studio 
before  he  was  aware  of  having  left  it. 

"Our  greatest  painter,"  said  Maurice.  "The  greatest 
since  Whistler." 

"Yes,"  said  Mendel,  aghast  at  the  supersession  of 
Calthrop  and  the  idols  of  the  Detmold.  If  Maurice 
could  be  so  ignorant  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  and 
argument  was  vain. 

"He  really  appreciated  your  work,"  Maurice  added. 

"He  never  looked  at  it!"  cried  Mendel,  enraged.  "I 
put  them  in  front  of  him  one  by  one,  but  he  always 
looked  at  the  fat  lady  in  blue." 

"He  could  tell  with  one  glance,"  protested  Maurice, 
who  had  been  mightily  impressed. 

Mendel  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  talk,  and  shut  his 
lips  tight  while  Maurice  chattered  to  him  of  his  ex- 
traordinary good  fortune  in  being  able  to  go  to  Italy, 
to  live  among  the  orange  groves  and  with  the  greatest 
galleries  of  the  world  to  roam  in,  the  most  beautiful 
scenery  and  the  most  delightful  food. 

The  mention  of  food  made  Mendel  think  of  his 
mother's  unsavoury  dishes  and  sluttish  table,  the  most 
distasteful  feature  of  his  existence,  but  he  preferred  even 
that  to  the  Italy  of  Maurice  Birnbaum  and  Sir  William. 
Through  such  people,  he  knew,  lay  nothing  that  he  could 
ever  desire. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  home  he  told  his  mother  that 
they  wanted  to  send  him  abroad  to  study.  He  strode 
about  the  kitchen  and  waved  his  arms,  growling : — 

"Study  ?  Study  ?  I  want  to  be  an  artist,  not  a  student. 
I  am  an  artist.  I  know  art  students  when  I  see  them 
— the  Academy,  South  Kensington,  the  Detmold — they 
are  all  the  same.  Let  them  go  abroad  and  never  come 


130  MENDEL 


back.  No  one  will  miss  them,  not  even  their  fathers 
and  mothers,  if  they  have  anything  so  natural.  I  will 
not  go — I  will  not  go!" 

"But  if  the  Maurice  Birnbaum  thinks  you  must  go, 
then  you  must,"  said  Golda.  "It  is  their  money  that 
has  been  spent  on  you." 

"They've  spent  enough,"  cried  Mendel,  "without  that. 
I  don't  want  their  money  any  more.  They  know  that. 
They  want  to  keep  me  in  their  hands  and  to  say  that 
they  made  me.  They?  People  like  that!  God  made 
me,  and  they  want  to  keep  me  all  my  life  saying  how 
grateful  I  am  to  them.  Grateful?  I  am  not." 

"But  you  could  go  for  a  little  while." 

"I  will  not  go  at  all." 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Maurice  Birnbaum  saying 
that  he  would  not  go  to  Italy,  that  he  did  not  want  any 
more  of  his  commissions,  and  that  he  would  not  be  in- 
terfered with  any  more.  He  would  shortly  repay  every 
penny  he  had  had,  and  he  asked  only  to  be  allowed  to 
know  best  what  he  wanted  to  do. 

"Everything  that  I  love  is  here  in  London,  and  I  can 
only  learn  from  what  I  love.  I  am  one  kind  of  artist 
and  you  want  to  turn  me  into  another  kind.  You  will 
only  waste  your  money,  and  I  will  not  let  you  do  it." 

Maurice  never  answered  this  letter  and  his  patronage 
and  that  of  his  friends  was  withdrawn. 

Mendel  plunged  more  ardently  than  ever  into  his  career 
with  Mitchell  and  the  others,  but  found  that  they  were 
not  prepared  to  share  or  to  admit  the  new  freedom 
which  he  had  begun  to  enjoy.  The  Birnbaum  patronage 
had  always  to  a  certain  extent  restrained  him,  but  now 
that  it  was  shaken  off  he  plunged  madly  and  wildly  into 
every  kind  of  extravagance.  He  was  no  longer  content 
to  be  the  equal  of  the  others.  He  wanted  to  lead  them. 


THE  QUINTETTE  131 

He  was  the  most  successful  of  them  all,  and  he  wanted 
them  all  to  join  him  in  forcing  art  upon  London.  Cal- 
throp  had  shown  them  the  way,  but  he  had  unaccount- 
ably stopped  short.  He  had  many  imitators,  and  there 
were  even  women  who  looked  like  his  type,  but  it  all 
ended  in  his  personality.  .  .  .  Art  was  something  else: 
something  outside  that,  an  impersonal  thing,  which  Lon- 
don should  be  made  to  recognise.  The  pictures  of  Kuh- 
ler,  Mitchell,  Weldon,  and  Kessler  should  be,  as  it  were, 
only  forerunners  of  the  mighty  pictures  that  should  be 
painted.  .  .  . 

He  was  just  as  extreme  and  violent  in  his  vices  as 
he  was  in  his  idealism,  and  even  Mitchell  was  rather 
upset  by  his  pranks  and  caprices.  It  was  one  thing 
to  take  a  shy  tame  genius  among  your  acquaintance, 
quite  another  when  the  genius  ran  wild  and  dragged 
you  hither  and  thither  and  with  breathless  haste  from 
the  vilest  human  company  to  the  most  dizzily  soaring 
ideas.  Weldon,  who  was  uncommonly  shrewd,  had 
begun  to  see  the  danger  of  allowing  Hetty  Finch  to  ar- 
range their  affairs,  and  when  on  top  of  that  Mendel, 
drunk  with  freedom  and  success,  began  to  take  charge, 
he  thought  it  time  to  secure  himself  and  began  to  with- 
draw from  their  undertakings  and  adventures. 

At  last  Kessler  struck,  and  told  Mendel  that  he  might 
be  the  greatest  genius  that  was  ever  born,  but  should 
sometimes  try  to  remember  that  his  friends  were  gen- 
tlemen and  could  not  always  be  making  allowances  for 
his  birth  and  upbringing.  This  happened  in  the  Paris 
Cafe.  Mendel  fell  like  a  shot  bird,  like  a  stone.  The 
eager  words  froze  on  his  lips,  his  face  visibly  contracted 
and  became  haggard,  his  eyes  blinked  for  a  moment,  then 
stared  glassily.  He  sat  so  for  some  minutes,  then  rose 
from  the  table  and  walked  quickly  out  of  the  cafe. 


132  MENDEL 

He  did  not  appear  for  a  week,  nor  was  anything  heard 
of  him.  He  sat  at  home  working  furiously.  Hetty 
Finch  went  to  see  him,  but  he  turned  her  out,  telling 
her  that  she  was  a  hateful,  cold-hearted  woman  and 
that  he  would  never  see  her  again. 

At  last  he  wrote  to  Mitchell,  a  letter  of  agony,  for 
Mitchell,  his  friend,  seemed  to  him  the  worst  offender, 
by  not  having  warned  him  of  what  was  in  the  air : — 

"You  are  my  friend,"  he  wrote,  "my  only  friend.  It 
is  no  more  to  you  what  I  am,  where  or  how  I  was  born, 
than  it  is  to  me  what  you  are.  The  soul  of  a  man 
chooses  his  friend,  and  I  trusted  you  even  in  my  folly. 
You  could  have  defended  me  and  our  friendship.  You 
have  not  done  so  and  I  must  live  miserably  without 
you.  Good-bye.  I  shall  not  attempt  again  to  enter  a 
life  in  which  my  work  is  not  sufficient  recommendation. 
I  was  happy.  I  was  not  happy  before.  I  am  not  happy 
now.  I  have  been  foolish,  but  I  was  your  friend." 

Mitchell  was  irritated  by  this  letter,  but  he  was  also 
moved.  He  valued  Mendel's  sincerity,  which  had  con- 
tinually jolted  him  out  of  his  natural  indolence.  And,  as 
he  had  a  fine  talent  and  a  fairly  strong  desire  to  use 
it  to  the  full,  the  friendship  had  profited  him.  It  had 
also  helped  him  to  come  to  reasonable  term's  with  that 
great  man,  his  father. 

On  the  other  hand  he  was  in  this  difficulty,  that  he 
too  had  been  slipping  out  of  the  quintette  through  his 
new  friendship  with  Miss  Greta  Morrison  and  her  friend, 
Miss  Edith  Clowes.  Knowing  Mendel's  contempt  for  the 
"top-knots,"  he  had  said  nothing  of  this  matter,  and 
had  found  it  sometimes  difficult  to  account  for  the  after- 
noons and  evenings  given  to  the  dilemma  of  discovering 
whether  Miss  Morrison  or  Miss  Clowes  were  the  love 


THE  QUINTETTE  133 

of  his  life.  Mendel  was  an  exacting  friend,  and,  as 
he  concealed  nothing,  expected  no  concealment. 

Mitchell,  like  the  true  Englishman  he  was,  deplored 
the  unpleasant  complication,  but  left  it  to  time,  impulse, 
or  inspiration  to  unravel.  Impulse,  in  due  course,  came 
to  his  aid  and  he  invented  a  plan.  First  of  all  he  wrote 
a  manly  note  to  Mendel,  confessing  his  inability  to  un- 
derstand why  he  should  suffer  for  Kessler's  caddishness, 
and  declaring  that  friendship  could  not  be  so  lightly 
broken.  He  received  no  reply  to  this,  and  proceeded  by 
taking  Morrison  and  Clowes  (as  in  the  fashion  of  the 
Detmold  they  were  called)  to  see  the  docks  at  Rother- 
hithe.  While  there  he  gazed  from  Morrison  to  Clowes 
and  from  Clowes  to  Morrison,  unable  to  decide  which 
he  loved,  for  both  gave  him  an  equal  contraction  of  the 
heart,  and  then  he  told  them  that  ships  had  never  been 
properly  painted,  never  expressed  in  form  and  colour; 
and  then  he  added  that  it  was  clearly  a  man's  job,  and 
then  he  informed  them  that  only  a  short  distance  away 
lived  Mendel  Kiihler. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  and  see  him?"  he  asked.  "It 
is  the  queerest  thing  to  go  and  see  him.  A  filthy  street, 
a  dark  house,  a  ramshackle  staircase,  and  there  you  are 
— absolutely  one  of  the  finest  painters  the  Detmold  has 
ever  turned  out." 

"Do  let  us  go  and  see  him!"  said  Clowes,  who  had 
decided  in  her  own  mind  that  she  was  the  third  of  the 
party  and  in  the  way.  Morrison  said  nothing,  and  looked 
very  solemn,  as  though  she  regarded  the  visit  as  an 
event — something  to  be  half  dreaded.  She  had  a  very 
charming  air  of  diffidence,  as  though  she  were  very  happy 
and  knew  this  to  be  an  unusual  and  peculiar  condition. 
Often  she  smiled  to  herself,  and  then  seemed  to  shake 
the  smile  away,  feeling  perhaps  that  she,  a  slip  of  a 


134  MENDEL 


girl,  had  no  right  to  be  amused  by  a  world  so  vast  and 
so  varied. 

She  had  enjoyed  herself.  The  ships  had  stirred  her 
romantically,  and  she  could  not  at  all  agree  with  Mitchell 
about  painting  them,  for  were  they  not  works  of  art 
in  themselves?  They  moved  her  in  the  same  way,  ar- 
resting her  eyes  and  delighting  them,  and  touching  her 
emotions  so  that  they  began  to  creep  and  tickle  their 
way  through  her  whole  being.  .  .  .  O  wonderful  world 
to  contain  so  much  delight !  And  it  pleased  her  that  the 
ships  should  start  out  of  the  squalor  of  the  docks  like 
lilies  out  of  a  dark  pond. 

She  smiled  and  shook  the  smile  away  when  Mitchell 
spoke  of  Mendel  Kiihler.  She  remembered  once  meet- 
ing Mendel  on  the  stairs  at  the  Detmold.  She  had  often 
noticed  him — strange-looking,  white-faced,  romantic, 
with  a  look  of  suffering  in  his  eyes  that  marked  him 
out  from  all  the  other  young  men.  .  .  .  After  she  had 
passed  him  on  the  stairs  she  turned  to  look  at  him, 
and  at  the  same  moment  he  turned  and  she  trembled 
and  blushed,  and  her  eyes  shone  as  she  hurried  on  her 
way. 

Mitchell  had  told  her  a  great  deal  about  him,  and 
she  had  heard  other  people  say  that  he  was  detestable, 
an  ill-mannered  egoist.  She  supposed  he  was  so,  for 
she  rarely  questioned  what  other  people  said,  but  he 
remained  a  clear  figure  for  her,  the  romantic-looking 
young  man  who  had  looked  back  on  the  stairs. 

"We'll  take  him  by  surprise,"  said  Mitchell,  with  a 
sudden  qualm  lest  they  should  break  in  upon  Mendel 
and  Hetty  Finch  together.  "If  we  told  him  he  would 
hide  all  his  work  away  and  put  on  a  white  shirt  and 
have  flowers  on  the  table,  for  he  is  terrified  of  ladies. 
He  says  they  don't  look  like  women  to  him." 


THE  QUINTETTE  135 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Clowes,  "I  don't  want  to  look  like 
a'  woman  to  any  man." 

This  was  the  most  encouraging  remark  Mitchell  had 
had  from  either  during  the  day,  and  he  decided  that 
he  was  in  love  with  Clowes. 

A  brisk  walk  through  narrow  dingy  streets  brought 
them,  with  some  help  from  the  police,  to  the  door  of 
Issy's  house.  Mitchell  knocked  and  a  grimy  little  Jewess 
opened  to  them. 

"Mr    Mendel  Kiihler?"  said  Mitchell. 

"Upstairs  to  the  top,"  replied  the  Jewess  as  she  hur- 
ried away.  They  climbed  the  shabbily  carpeted  stairs  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  studio.  Mendel  opened  it. 
He  stood  with  a  brush  in  his  hand,  blinking.  He  stared 
at  Mitchell  and  then  beyond  him  at  Morrison. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "I'd  just  finished.  I've  been 
working  rather  hard  and  haven't  spoken  to  a  soul  for 
three  days.  You  must  forgive  me  if  I  don't  seem  very 
intelligent." 

They  went  in  and  he  made  tea  for  them,  hardly  ever 
taking  his  eyes  off  Morrison.  He  said  pointedly  to 
Mitchell : — 

"So  you  came  down  to  the  East  End  to  find  me." 

Clowes  explained : — 

"I'm  a  stranger  to  London  and  had  never  seen  the 
docks,  you  know." 

"I  have  never  seen  the  docks  either,  though  I  live 
so  near,"  said  he.  Then,  catching  Morrison  glancing  in 
the  direction  of  his  easel,  he  turned  his  work  for  her 
to  see,  almost  ignoring  the  others.  Afterwards  he  pro- 
duced drawings  for  her  to  see,  and  he  seemed  entirely 
bent  on  pleasing  her,  which  so  embarrassed  her  that, 
when  she  could  escape  his  gaze,  she  looked  imploringly 
over  at  the  others.  They  could  not  help  her,  and  he 


136  MENDEL 


went  on  until  he  had  shown  her  every  piece  of  work 
in  the  studio.  Whenever  she  spoke,  shyly  and  diffidently, 
as  though  she  knew  her  opinion  was  of  no  value,  he  gave 
a  queer  little  grunt  of  triumph,  and  his  eyes  glittered  as 
he  looked  over  at  Mitchell,  as  though  to  say  that  he 
too  knew  how  to  treat  the  "top-knots"  and  to  please 
them. 


CHAPTER   X 
MORRISON 


A  FEW  days  later  he  wired  to  Morrison  at  the  Det- 
mold  to  ask  her  to  sit  for  him.  She  made  no 
reply  and  did  not  come. 

Very  well  then :  he  would  not  budge.  He  would  only 
approach  Mitchell  again  through  the  "top-knots,"  who 
lived  in  a  portion  of  Mitchell's  world  that  had  hitherto 
been  closed  to  him.  It  promised  new  adventure,  and 
he  was  so  eager  for  it  that  he  would  not  enter  upon 
any  other  outside  his  work. 

The  days  went  by  and  he  began  a  portrait  of  his 
mother,  with  which  he  intended  to  make  his  first  appear- 
ance at  an  important  exhibition.  Golda  sat  dressed  in 
her  best  on  the  throne,  and  tried  vainly  to  soothe  him 
as  he  cursed  and  stamped  and  wept  over  his  difficulties. 

"I  can't  do  it !  I  can't  do  it !"  he  wailed.  "I'm  a  fool, 
a  blockhead,  a  pig!  If  I  could  only  do  one  little  thing 
more  to  it  I  could  make  it  a  great  picture." 

"You  are  always  the  same,"  said  Golda.  "In  Aus- 
tria, when  you  were  a  little  boy,  the  soldiers  made  you 
a  uniform  like  their  own.  They  used  to  call  you  the 
Captain,  and  they  saluted  you  in  the  street,  only  they 
forgot  to  give  you  any  boots,  and  when  the  soldiers 
marched  by,  you  stamped  and  roared  because  you  were 

J37 


138  MENDEL 


not  allowed  to  go  with  them,  and  I  could  not  make  you 
understand  that  you  were  not  a  real  captain." 

"But  I  am  a  real  artist,"  he  growled.  "You'll  never 
make  me  understand  that  I  am  not  a  real  artist." 

"Nothing  good  was  ever  done  in  a  hurry,"  said  she. 
"If  you  run  so  fast  you  will  break  your  head  against  a 
wall." 

"I  shall  paint  many  portraits  of  you,  for  I  shall  never 
be  satisfied.  You  may  as  well  sit  here  with  your  hands 
folded  as  over  there  in  the  kitchen.  If  I'm  not  careful 
your  hands  will  grow  all  over  the  picture.  I  have  put 
such  a  lot  of  work  into  them." 

Then  for  a  long  time  he  was  silent,  and  both  were 
lost  in  a  dreamlike  happiness — to  be  together,  alone 
with  his  work,  bound  together  in  his  delight  as  they 
used  to  be  when  he  was  a  child  before  the  invasion  of 
their  peace. 

He  went  to  the  door  in  answer  to  a  knock  and  found 
Morrison  standing  there  with  some  flowers  in  her  hands. 

"Oh!"  he  said  awkwardly,  holding  the  door.  "Won't 
you  come  in?  Please.  I  am  painting  my  mother." 

Golda's  eyes  lighted  with  pleasure  on  the  fresh-looking 
girl  and  her  flowers. 

"She  is  like  a  flower  herself,"  she  thought,  and  in- 
deed the  girl  looked  as  though  she  were  fresh  from 
the  country. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  Golda,  who  stood  up  on 
the  throne  and  bobbed  to  her,  then  folded  her  hands 
on  her  stomach  and  waited  patiently  for  the  lady  to 
break  the  awkwardness  that  had  sprung  up  between  the 
three  of  them.  Mendel  could  do  nothing.  He  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  and  felt,  with  a  little  tremor  of 
horror,  the  gulf  that  separated  the  two. 

At  last  Morrison  said  to  Golda: — 


MORRISON  139 


"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  though  I  feel  I  know 
you  quite  well  from  the  drawings  he  has  done  of  you." 

Golda  broke  into  inarticulate  expressions  of  the  de- 
light it  was  to  her  to  see  any  of  her  son's  friends,  and 
saying  that  she  would  have  a  special  tea  sent  up,  she 
edged  towards  the  door  and  slipped  out. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  before?"  asked  Mendel,  when 
he  had  heard  the  door  bang.  "I  sent  you  a  telegram. 
I  wanted  to  paint  your  portrait,  and  now  I  have  begun 
something  else." 

"I  didn't  want  to  come,"  replied  she,  "but  something 
Mitchell  said  made  me  want  to  come." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  told  me  about  Kessler,  and  I  thought  it  was  a 
shame.  I  thought  it  was  a  horrible  shame  that  you 
should  be  treated  like  that,  as  if  anything  mattered  but 
your  work." 

Her  voice  rather  irritated  him.  Her  accent  was  rather 
mincing  and  precise,  and  between  her  sentences  she  gave 
a  little  gasp  which  he  took  for  an  affectation. 

"Why  did  Mitchell  tell  you  that?" 

"He  tells  me  a  great  deal  about  you,  and  he  was  really 
upset  by  your  letter." 

"Was  he?    Was  he?" 

Mendel  had  no  thought  but  for  Mitchell.  He  longed 
to  go  to  him,  to  embrace  him,  to  tell  him  that  all  was 
different  now.  He  blurted  it  all  out  to  the  girl. 

"We  were  so  happy,  the  four  of  us  together.  Every 
evening  we  met  and  we  were  like  kings.  Everything 
that  we  wanted  to  do  we  did.  We  had  money  and 
success  and  all  such  foolish  things,  and  we  worked  hard, 
all  of  us.  There  were  not  in  London  four  young  men 
like  us,  and  I  was  free  of  the  terrible  people  who  wanted 
to  turn  me  into  an  ordinary  successful  painter — a  por- 


140  MENDEL 


trait  painter.  I  tell  you,  I  have  never  had  a  commission 
in  my  life  that  was  not  a  failure.  I  only  wanted  to 
be  young  and  to  work,  for  I  had  never  been  young  be- 
fore. And  then  suddenly,  out  of  nothing,  my  friends 
turned  on  me  and  told  me  I  was  a  Jew  and  uneducated, 
and  ought  to  treat  them  with  more  respect.  Why  ?  The 
Jews  are  good  people,  and  what  do  I  want  with  edu- 
cation? Can  books  teach  me  how  to  paint?  I  tell  you 
the  Jews  are  good  people." 

Tea  was  brought  up  on  a  lacquer  tray — bread,  jam, 
and  cake.  They  were  both  hungry  and  fell  to  with  a 
will,  hardly  speaking  at  all. 

When  they  had  finished  they  began  to  talk  of  pic- 
tures and  of  the  lives  of  the  painters,  and  he  told  her 
stories  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Rembrandt :  how  Michael 
Angelo  never  took  his  boots  off,  and  was  never  in  love 
in  his  life;  and  how  Rembrandt  was  practically  starved 
to  death.  Then  he  showed  her  reproductions  of  Cranach 
and  Diirer,  whom  at  the  time  he  adored,  and  they  bent 
over  them,  the  chestnut  head  and  the  curly  black  to- 
gether. Gradually  she  led  him  on  to  tell  of  his  own 
life,  and  he  began  at  the  beginning  in  Austria,  holding 
her  spell-bound  with  his  vivid,  picturesque  talk. 

"It  makes  me  feel  very  quiet  and  dull,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  think  I  ever  regarded  places  outside  England  as 
real,  somehow.  There  was  just  home  and  London,  and 
London  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  everything.  All  the 
trains  stop  there,  you  know." 

"Where  is  your  home?"  he  asked. 

"In  Sussex.     It  is  very  beautiful  country." 

"How  did  you  come  to  the  Detmold?" 

"A  girl  at  home  had  been  there,  and  at  school  they 
said  I  was  no  good  at  anything  but  drawing.  Indeed, 
I  was  sent  away  from  two  schools,  and  at  home  I  was 


MORRISON  141 


such  a  trouble  that  mother  decided  I  must  do  something 
to  earn  my  living.  So  I  was  sent  up  to  the  Detmold.  I 
had  my  hair  down  my  back  then." 

"I  remember,"  said  he.     "In  a  plait." 

She  smiled  with  pleasure  at  that. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "In  a  plait.  I  lived  in  a  hostel, 
where  they  bullied  me  because  I  was  so  untidy  and  was 
always  being  late  for  meals.  At  home,  you  know,  there 
were  only  my  brothers,  and  my  mother  could  never  keep 
them  in  order,  and  I  was  always  treated  as  if  I  was 
a  boy  too.  .  .  .  And  I  think  that's  all." 

She  ended  so  lamely  that  his  irritation  got  the  better 
of  him,  and  he  jumped  to  his  feet.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  his  view  of  the  "top-knots"  was  confirmed.  They 
were  simply  negligible.  He  was  baffled,  and  stood  staring 
down  at  her.  Was  she  no  more  interested  in  herself 
than  that?  Comparing  the  smooth  monotony  of  her  life 
with  his,  he  waxed  impatient,  and  told  himself  he  was 
a  fool  to  have  invited  her  to  come  to  him. 

He  began  to  study  her  face  with  a  view  to  painting 
it,  and  he  was  absorbed  and  fascinated  by  it.  The  lines 
of  her  cheek  and  of  her  neck  made  him  itch  to  draw 
them. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  must  paint  you.  I  can  do  something 
good.  I'm  sure  I  can." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  if  you  would  mind  my  painting  you," 
she  said. 

He  was  aghast  at  her  impudence.  She,  a  slip  of  a 
girl,  a  "top-knot,"  paint  the  great  Kiihler! 

She  saw  how  horrified  he  was  and  added  hastily: — 

"Of  course,  I  won't  insist  if  you  don't  like  sitting." 

She  rose  to  go  and  he  begged  her  to  stay. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  he  said  with  sudden  emotion.  "I 
don't  want  you  to  go.  Somehow  I  feel  as  if  you  had 


142  MENDEL 


been  sitting  there  always  and  I  don't  want  you  to  go. 
If  you  don't  want  to  talk  you  needn't,  but  you  must  stay. 
I  could  see  that  my  mother  liked  you  at  once,  and  she 
always  knows  good  people.  You  made  her  happy  about 
me.  It  was  like  sunshine  to  her  when  you  came  in, 
and  I  shall  be  wretched  if  you  go,  for  I  don't  know  what 
to  think  about  you." 

"I  know  what  I  think  about  you." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"You  have  made  me  feel  that  London  isn't  just  a 
place  where  the  trains  stop." 

And  she  began  to  tell  him  about  her  home  and  the 
river  where  she  bathed  with  her  brothers,  the  woods 
where  in  spring  there  were  primroses  and  daffodils,  and 
in  summer  bluebells. 

"Opposite  the  house,"  she  said,  "is  a  hill  which  is  a 
common,  all  covered  with  gorse  in  the  summer,  and  the 
hot,  nutty  smell  of  it  comes  up  and  seems  to  burn  your 
face.  There  are  snakes  on  the  common — vipers  and 
adders  and  grass-snakes.  From  the  top  you  can  see  the 
downs,  and  beyond  them,  you  know,  is  the  sea.  On 
moonlight  nights  it  is  glorious,  and  I  nearly  go  mad 
sometimes  with  running  in  and  out  of  the  shadows.  I  be- 
lieve I  did  go  mad  once,  for  I  sat  up  on  the  top  of 
the  hill  and  sang  and  shouted  and  cried,  all  by  myself, 
and  I  felt  that  my  heart  would  break  if  I  did  not  kiss 
something.  The  gorse  was  out,  and  I  buried  my  face 
in  the  dewy  yellow  flowers.  ...  I  often  think  the  woods 
are  like  churches  on  Easter  Day.  .  .  .  And  then  when 
I  get  home  and  it  is  just  a  house  and  I  am  just  a  girl 
living  in  it,  you  know,  it  all  seems  wrong  somehow." 

Mendel  sat  on  the  floor  trying  to  puzzle  out  this  mys- 
terious rapture  of  hers.  He  had  never  heard  of  gorse 
or  of  downs,  but  he  could  recognise  her  emotion.  He 


MORRISON  143 


had  had  something  like  it  the  first  time  he  saw  a  may- 
tree  in  blossom,  and  he  had  hardly  been  able  to  bear 
it.  He  had  rather  resented  it,  for  it  had  interfered  with 
his  work  for  a  day  or  two,  and  he  could  not  help  feeling 
that  there  was  something  indecent  about  an  emotion  with 
which  he  could  do  nothing. 

"Yes,"  he  said  heavily;  "it  must  be  very  pretty." 

She  shivered  at  the  grotesqueness  of  his  words  as 
she  sank  back  into  her  normal  mood  of  happy  diffidence. 
His  face  wore  an  expression  of  black  anger  as  he 
darted  quick,  furious  glances  at  her.  Here  was  some- 
thing that  he  did  not  understand,  something  that  defied 
his  mastery,  and  when  she  smiled  he  thought  it  was 
at  himself,  and  this  strange  power  that  had  been  be- 
hind her  appeared  to  him  as  a  mocking,  teasing  spirit. 
Let  it  mock,  let  it  tease!  He  was  strong  enough  to 
defy  it.  Sweep  through  a  green  girl  it  might,  but  he 
was  not  to  be  caught  by  it.  He  knew  better.  In  him  it 
had  tough  simplicity  to  deal  with  and  a  will  that  had 
broken  the  confinement  of  Fate,  the  limits  of  a  meagre 
religion,  to  bend  before  no  authority  but  that  of  art. 
.  .  .  He  was  rather  contemptuous,  too.  Nothing  as  yet 
had  resisted  his  genius,  and  he  felt  it  within  him  stronger 
than  ever,  a  river  with  a  thousand  sources.  Block  one 
channel  and  it  would  find  another.  Stop  that  and  it 
would  find  yet  another. 

Yet  here  he  knew  was  no  direct,  no  open  menace,  only 
the  intolerable  suggestion  that  there  were  other  streams, 
other  sources,  and  the  suggestion  had  come  from  this 
foolish,  empty  girl. 

"I  will  not  have  it,"  he  said  half  aloud. 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing.  I  was  thinking — I  was  thinking  that  there 
is  nothing  so  good  as  London.  They  tried  to  send  me 


144  MENDEL 


4 


to  Italy,  but  I  know  that  there  is  nothing  so  good  as 
London  for  life,  and  where  life  is,  there  is  art.  I  don't 
want  your  pretty  places  and  your  pretty  feelings.  I 
want  to  go  through  the  streets  and  to  see  the  girls  in  the 
evening  leaving  the  shops,  and  the  men  in  their  bowler- 
hats  looking  at  the  girls  and  wanting  them,  and  the 
fat  men  in  their  motor-cars,  and  the  bookstalls  on  the 
railway  stations,  and  the  public-houses  with  their  rows 
of  bottles  and  the  white  handles  of  the  beer  machines, 
and  the  plump  barmaids,  and  the  long,  straight  streets 
going  on  for  ever  with  the  flat  houses  on  either  side  of 
them,  and  the  markets  and  the  timber-yards  and  the  tall 
chimneys.  It  all  fills  your  mind  and  makes  patterns 
and  whirling  thoughts  that  take  a  spiral  shape,  going  up 
and  up  to  mysterious  heights.  I  want  all  that,  and  noth- 
ing shall  take  it  from  me,  do  you  hear?" 

He  turned  on  her  ferociously,  as  though  she  were  try- 
ing to  rob  him. 

"And  inside  it  all  is  something  solid,"  he  went  on. 
"Do  you  know  that  my  father  never  loved  but  one  woman 
in  all  his  life?  That's  what  Jews  are.  They  know 
what's  solid.  If  they  have  to  stay  in  the  filth  to  keep 
it,  then  they'll  stay  in  the  filth.  And  because  I'm  a  Jew 
I'm  not  to  be  caught  with  your  pretty  things  and  your 
little  fancies.  I  shall  paint  the  things  I  understand,  and 
I'll  leave  the  clouds  and  the  rainbows  and  the  roofs  and 
chimneys  to  fools  like  Mitchell." 

Morrison  sat  very  meekly  while  he  talked.  She  hung 
her  head  and  twitched  her  ringers  nervously.  She  was 
elated  by  his  passion,  but  she  too  had  her  dreams  and 
was  not  going  to  surrender  them.  His  strength  had 
given  her  confidence  in  them  and  in  herself,  and  she 
was  filled  with  a  teasing  spirit. 

"Jews  aren't  the  only  people  who  are  solid,"  she  said. 


MORRISON  145 


"You  see  men  in  buses  and  trains  whom  an  earthquake 
wouldn't  move,  and  I'm  sure,  if  an  earthquake  hap- 
pened, my  mother  would  be  left  where  she  was,  reading 
the  Bible." 

Mendel  replied: — 

"In  a  thousand  years  my  mother  will  be  just  as  she 
is  now." 

Morrison  stared  at  him  and  began  to  wonder  if  he 
was  not  a  little  mad.  He  added  simply : — 

"I  feel  like  that." 

And  she  was  relieved  and  thought  he  was  the  only 
sane  person  she  had  ever  met  in  her  life. 

"Will  you  let  me  come  again?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  paint  you,"  he  said;  "I  am  going  to 
paint  you  as  you  are.  You  won't  like  it." 

"I  shall  if  you  make  me  solid,"  she  answered.  "And 
you  need  flowers  in  this  dark  room.  You  must  let  me 
send  you  some." 


BOOK  TWO:    BOHEMIA 


BOOK    TWO:     BOHEMIA 
CHAPTER   I 

THE   POT-AU-FEU 


AT  the  exhibition,  the  portrait  of  Golda  created  no 
small  stir.  The  critics,  who,  since  Whistler,  had 
been  chary  of  denouncing  new-comers,  had  swung  to 
the  opposite  extravagance  and  were  excessively  eager 
to  discover  new  masters.  The  youth  of  this  Kuhler 
made  him  fair  game,  for  it  supplied  them  with  a  proviso. 
They  could  hail  his  talent  as  that  of  a  prodigy  without 
commiting  themselves. 

"The  portrait  of  the  artist's  mother,"  wrote  one  of 
them,  "has  all  the  essentials  of  great  art,  as  the  early 
compositions  of  Mozart  had  all  the  essentials  of  great 
music.  Here  is  real  achievement,  a  work  of  art  instinct 
with  racial  feeling,  and  therefore  of  true  originality.  No 
trace  here  of  Parisian  experiments.  This  picture  is  in 
the  direct  line  from  Holbein  and  Diirer." 

Mendel  took  this  to  mean  that  he  was  as  good  as 
Holbein  and  Diirer,  and  accepted  it  not  as  praise  but  as 
a  statement  of  fact.  The  picture  was  bought  by  a  well- 
known  connoisseur,  who  wrote  that  he  was  proud  to  have 
being  redeemed  by  a  virtuous  girl  until  now." 

149 


150  MENDEL 


"Now,"  thought  the  proud  painter,  "my  career  has 
really  begun." 

For  once  in  a  way  he  regarded  his  success  with  his 
father's  eyes  and  much  as  Moscowitsch  would  have  re- 
garded the  successful  coup  in  business  for  which  he  was 
always  vainly  striving.  The  hectic  gambling  spirit  in- 
troduced by  Hetty  Finch  had  disappeared,  and  though  he 
still  devoted  his  leisure  to  Mitchell,  their  adventurous- 
ness  was  tempered  by  the  tantalisation  of  the  "top-knots," 
Morrison  and  Clowes.  To  counteract  the  disturbing  ef- 
/  feet  of  their  coolness,  Mendel  became  very  Jewish  and 
/  hugged  his  success,  gloating  over  it  rather  like  a  cat  over 
a  stolen  piece  of  fish. 

Morrison's  indifference  to  the  buzz  about  his  name 
was  especially  maddening,  because  he  wished  to  prove 
to  her  that  in  painting  dwelt  a  joy  beside  which  her 
trumpery  little  ecstasy  in  woods  and  flowers  was  noth- 
ing, nothing  at  all.  He  wished  to  convince  himself 
that  he  had  not  been  really  disturbed  by  her  first  visit 
to  his  studio.  Only  the  shock  of  novelty  he  had  felt, 
and  by  his  success,  by  his  triumphant  work,  he  had 
obliterated  it.  ...  She  was  nothing,  he  told  himself, 
only  a  raw  girl,  smooth  and  polished  by  her  easy  life, 
good  for  nothing  except  to  be  made  love  to  by  such  as 
Mitchell. 

Love  ?  They  called  it  love  when  a  young  man  clasped 
a  maiden's  hand,  or  when  they  kissed  and  rode  together 
on  the  tops  of  buses!  These  Christians  were  rather  dis- 
gusting with  all  their  talk  of  love.  He  had  heard  more 
talk  of  it  in  three  years  of  contact  with  them  than 
in  all  his  life  before,  and  Weldon  and  others  had  talked 
of  love  in  connection  with  Hetty  Finch. 

Disgusting ! 

And  now  here  was  Mitchell  babbling  of  his  love  for 


THE  POT-AU-FEU  151 

Morrison.  When  Mendel  wanted  to  talk  of  pictures  and 
art  and  the  old  painters  who  had  worked  simply  with- 
out reference  to  success,  Mitchell  kept  dragging  him  back 
to  Morrison,  her  simplicity,  her  extraordinary  childlike 
innocence,  her  love  of  beauty,  her  generous  trustfulness, 
her  queer  sudden  impulses. 

"What  has  such  a  girl  as  that  to  do  with  art  or  with 
artists?"  said  Mendel  furiously.  "An  artist  wants  women 
as  he  wants  his  food,  when  he  has  time  for  them." 

"Gawd!"   says  Mitchell,  trotting  along  by  his  side; 
"you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.     I  tell 
you  I  never  believed  all  that  trash  about  a  young  man      y 
being  redeemed  by  a  virtuous  girl  until  now." 

"It's  nonsense !"  shouted  Mendel ;  "nonsense,  I  tell  you. 
It  must  be  nonsense,  because  it  didn't  matter  to  you 
whether  it  was  Clowes  or  Morrison,  and  for  all  I  know, 
it  may  be  both." 

"Clowes  is  a  jolly  nice  girl  too,"  replied  Mitchell,  "but 
she's  more  ordinary.  I  never  met  any  one  like  Morrison 
before.  I  can't  make  her  out,  but  she  does  make  me 
feel  that  I  am  an  absolute  rotter.  It  is  her  fresh  en- 
joyment of  simple  things  that  disturbs  me  and  makes 
me  see  what  a  mess  I've  made  of  my  life.  Once  an 
artist  loses  that,  he  is  finished." 

They  had  been  reading  Tolstoi  on  "What  is  Art?" 
and  their  young  conceit  had  been  put  out  by  it.  Must 
their  extraordinary  powers  produce  work  accessible  to 
the  smallest  intelligence?  Mendel  had  been  greatly  in- 
fluenced by  that  theory  in  his  portrait  of  his  mother, 
while  Mitchell's  energy  had  been  paralysed  so  that  he 
could  produce  nothing  at  all. 

"Yes,"  Mitchell  went  on,  "I  know  now  what  Tolstoi 
means.  He  means  that  love  can  speak  direct  to  love, 
and,  by  Jove!  it  is  absolutely  true.  Brains  are  only  a 


152  MENDEL 


nuisance  to  an  artist.  Look  at  Calthrop !  He  hasn't  got 
the  brains  of  a  louse.  Of  course,  that  is  why  painters 
are  such  an  ignorant  lot.  I  must  tell  my  father  that 
when  he  goes  for  me  for  not  reading." 

"But  Tolstoi  liked  bad  artists!"  grumbled  Mendel. 
"And  my  mother  does  not  like  some  of  my  best  things. 
As  for  my  father,  he  wants  a  painted  bread  to  look  as 
if  he  could  eat  it:  never  is  he  satisfied  just  to  look  at 
it.  His  love  and  my  love  are  not  the  same  and  cannot 
speak  to  each  other." 

"You  should  see  more  of  Morrison,  and  then  you 
would  understand,"  rejoined  Mitchell. 

Mendel  felt  that  Mitchell  was  slipping  away  from 
him,  and  all  this  Christian  talk  of  love  was  to  him  a 
corrosion  upon  his  imagination  and  his  nervous  energy, 
blurring  and  distorting  everything  that  he  valued.  There 
were  many  things  that  he  hated,  and  yet  because  he  hated 
them  their  interest  for  him  was  consuming.  Issy's  wife, 
for  instance,  and  her  squalling  children ;  his  father's  bit- 
ter tongue;  and  Mitchell's  odd  self-importance. 

He  repeated: — 

"Tolstoi  liked  bad  artists." 

"You  can't  settle  a  big  man  like  Tolstoi  just  by  re- 
peating phrases  about  him." 

"I  can  settle  him  by  painting  good  pictures,"  retorted 
Mendel.  "I  don't  paint  pictures  to  please  people." 

"Then  why  do  you  paint?" 

"I  don't  know.  To  be  an  artist.  Because  there  is  a 
thing  called  art  which  matters  to  me  more  than  all  the 
love  and  all  the  women  and  all  the  little  girls  in  the 
world." 

"Ah !"  sighed  Mitchell.  "You'll  soon  think  differently. 
I  shall  never  do  another  stroke  of  work  without  thinking 


THE  POT-AU-FEU  153 

of  Greta  standing  on  Kew  Bridge  and  looking  up  the 
river  at  the  boats  with  their  white  sails." 

"Will  you  be  quiet?"  cried  Mendel;  "will  you  be 
quiet  with  your  little  girls  and  white  sails?" 

Mitchell  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  from  him,  and 
he  dreaded  the  thought  of  being  left  alone  with  his 
success,  which  was  blowing  a  bulb  of  glass  round  him, 
so  that  he  felt  imprisoned  in  it,  and  wherever  he  looked' 
could  see  nothing  but  reflections  of  himself,  Mendel  Kiih- 
ler,  painting  his  mother,  and  his  father,  and  old  Jews 
and  loaves  and  fishes  for  ever  and  ever.  While  he 
clung  to  Mitchell  he  knew  that  he  could  not  be  so  en- 
cased, but  Mitchell  demanded  that  he  should  go  out 
with  him  into  a  world  all  glowing  with  love,  with  rivers 
of  milk  and  honey  and  meadows  pied  with  buttercups 
and  daisies;  to  stand  on  airy  bridges  and  gaze  at  inno- 
cent little  girls  and  white  sails.  The  contemplation  of 
this  world  revolted  him,  and  he  stiffened  himself  against 
it.  Better  the  smells  and  the  dirt  than  such  fantastical 
stuff.  His  gorge  rose  against  it. 

To  wean  Mitchell  from  his  amorous  fancies  he  pre- 
tended that  he  was  tired  and  wanted  a  holiday,  and  to- 
gether they  went  down  to  a  village  on  the  South  Coast 
near  Brighton.  There  it  was  almost  as  it  had  been  in 
the  beginning.  For  a  fortnight  they  were  never  out 
of  each  other's  company.  They  slept  in  one  bed  and 
shared  each  other's  clothes,  paints,  and  money.  They 
sketched  the  same  subjects,  took  tremendous  walks,  and 
in  the  evening  they  talked  as  though  there  were  no  Lon- 
don, no  Paris  Cafe,  no  exhibitions,  no  dealers,  no  critics, 
nothing  but  themselves  and  their  friendship  and  their  ar- 
tistic projects.  Mendel  was  supremely  happy.  Never 
had  he  known  such  intimacy  since  the  days  of  Artie 
Beech. 


154  MENDEL 


But  Mitchell  was  often  depressed  and  moody.  He 
had  letters  every  day,  and  every  evening  he  wrote  at 
great  length. 

One  morning  he  had  a  letter  which  he  crumpled  up 
dramatically  and  thrust  into  his  trousers  pocket. 

"Gawd !"  he  said.  "That's  put  the  lid  on  it.  I'm  done 
for." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Mendel,  aghast. 

"I'll  tell  you  when  we  get  back  to  London.  We  must 
go  back  this  afternoon.  Eight  o'clock  in  the  Pot-au- 
Feu." 

The  Pot-au-Feu  was  a  little  restaurant  in  Soho  which 
Mitchell,  Weldon,  and  some  others  had  endeavoured  to 
render  immortal  by  decorating  it  with  panels.  In  a  room 
above  it  lived  Hetty  Finch. 

Mendel's  thoughts  flew  to  her,  a  figure  of  ill  omen. 
He  had  not  seen  her  for  some  time,  and  had  imagined 
that  she  had  so  successfully  got  all  she  wanted  and  was 
so  thoroughly  established  in  her  composite  profession  that 
she  had  no  time  for  the  younger  artists.  He  had  heard 
tales  about  her,  and  fancied  she  would  succeed  in  hook- 
ing one  of  the  older  men  for  a  husband. 

He  said: — 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  back  to  that  beastly  place? 
Here  it  is  good.  I  could  stay  here  for  six  months." 

"Gawd!"  said  Mitchell  dismally.  "  Tis  life.  There's 
absolutely  no  getting  away  from  it.  Everything  is  swal- 
lowed up  and  nothing  is  left." 

He  became  very  solemn  and  added : — 

"If  anything  happens  to  me,  Kiihler,  I  want  you  to 
go  to  Greta  Morrison  and  tell  her  that  through  every- 
thing I  never  forgot  my  happiness  with  her." 

"Happen!"  cried  Mendel.    "What  can  happen?" 


THE  POT-AU-FEU  155 

"I'll  tell  you  to-night,"  replied  Mitchell  gloomily,  "at 
the  Pot-au-Feu." 

And  not  another  word  did  he  say,  neither  during  their 
morning's  work,  nor  during  lunch,  nor  in  the  train,  nor 
in  the  taxi-cab  that  took  them  to  Soho. 

"You  wait  outside,"  said  Mitchell  mysteriously. 

Mendel  waited  outside  and  paced  up  and  down,  op- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  his  friendship  with  Mitchell 
was  at  an  end.  He  was  left  helpless  and  exposed,  for 
all  that  had  been  built  on  the  friendship  had  come  top- 
pling down,  and  with  it  came  the  extra  personality  he 
had  developed  for  dealing  with  the  Detmold  and  the  po- 
lite world — the  Kiihler  who  had  assiduously  learned  man- 
ners and  phrases,  vices  and  enthusiasms,  as  a  part  to  be 
played  at  the  Paris  Cafe  and  in  the  drawing-rooms  of 
the  languid  ladies  who  were  interested  in  art  and  art- 
ists. Hetty  Finch  went  with  it,  for  she  had  been  an 
adjunct  of  that  personality.  .  .  .  He  was  glad  to  be  rid 
of  her,  and  shook  her  off,  plucked  her  out  of  his  mind 
like  a  burr  that  was  stuck  upon  it. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  Mitchell  came  out 
more  mysterious  than  ever,  took  his  arm  and  led  him  into 
the  restaurant,  which  was  hardly  bigger  than  an  ordi- 
nary room.  Full  of  vigour  and  health  as  he  was,  Mendel 
felt  an  enormous  size  in  it,  as  though  he  must  knock  over 
the  tables  and  thrust  his  elbows  through  the  painted 
panels.  Madame  Feydeau,  the  proprietress,  greeted  him 
with  a  wide  smile  and  said  she  had  missed  him  lately. 
At  his  table  was  the  goggle-eyed  man  who  dined  there 
every  night  with  his  newspaper  open  in  front  of  him. 
Weldon  and  a  girl  with  short  hair  were  sitting  in  un- 
comfortable silence,  both  with  the  air  of  doing  a  secret 
thing.  Near  the  counter,  with  its  'dishes  of  fruit  and 


156  MENDEL 


coffee-glasses,  was  Hetty  Finch,  rather  drawn  and 
pinched  in  the  face  and  very  dark  under  the  eyes. 

Mendel  was  filled  with  impatience.  She  had  no  busi- 
ness to  be  sitting  there,  for  he  had  disposed  of  her,  and 
she  made  everything  seem  fantastic  and  unreal.  He 
shook  hands  with  her  and  sat  at  the  table.  Mitchell  took 
the  chair  next  to  Hetty  and  talked  to  her  in  an  under- 
tone, while  her  eyes  turned  on  Mendel  with  a  fright- 
ened, inquiring  expression. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  as  though  he  had  understood  her 
question.  "I  know  when  to  hold  my  tongue." 

Mitchell  went  on  whispering,  and  every  now  and  then 
he  bowed  his  head  and  clenched  his  fists,  as  though  he 
were  racked  with  inexpressible  emotions.  He  too  had 
become  fantastic.  Mendel  knew  that  he  was  play-act- 
ing, and  with  a  sickening  dread  he  went  back  over  all  he 
knew  of  Mitchell,  recognising  this  same  play-acting  in 
much  that  he  had  accepted  as  genuine.  Yet  he  would 
not  believe  it,  for  Mitchell  was  his  friend,  and  therefore 
never  to  be  criticised. 

Would  neither  of  them  speak?  Food  was  laid  before 
him,  and  he  ate  it  without  tasting  it.  Mitchell  led  Hetty 
away  to  another  table  and  talked  to  her  impressively 
there.  Then  he  brought  her  back  and  went  on  with  his 
whispering. 

Coffee  was  laid  before  Mendel,  and  he  drank  it  with- 
out tasting  it. 

At  last  Hetty  said,  in  a  loud  voice  that  rang  through 
the  room: — 

"No.  I  will  take  nothing  from  you.  I  ask  nothing 
from  you,  not  a  penny." 

"By  God,"  said  Mitchell,  hanging  his  head,  "I  deserve 
it." 

Hetty  turned  to  Mendel  and  asked  him  sweetly  to  buy 


THE  POT-AU-FEU  157 

her  a  bottle  of  wine,  as  she  needed  something  to  pick 
her  up. 

"You  are  a  devil,"  she  said,  "sitting  there  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  But  I  always  said  you  were  a 
devil  and  no  good.  I  always  said  so,  but  I  have  my 
friends  and  can  be  independent." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  he  roughly.  "You'll  have 
a  short  run,  and  you'd  better  find  something  to  fall  back 
on  while  you  can." 

"Get  your  hair  cut !"  she  replied.  "I  know  which  side 
my  bread's  buttered,  and  the  old  men  aren't  so  sharp  as 
the  young  ones.  You've  got  a  fool's  tongue  in  your 
clever  head,  Kiihler,  and  a  fool's  tongue  makes  enemies." 

"Shut  up!"  he  said.  "And  you  leave  Mitchell  alone. 
He  hasn't  done  you  any  harm." 

"Ho!     Hasn't  he?"  she  cried. 

Mitchell  groaned,  and,  giving  a  withering  glance  at  the 
two  of  them,  Hetty  gathered  up  her  vanity-bag  and 
gloves  and  walked  out  of  the  restaurant. 

"She's  a  slut!"  said  Mendel.  "She  always  was  a  slut 
and  always  will  be." 

"Gawd !"  cried  Mitchell.  "It  was  you  let  her  loose  on 
the  town,  and  I  shall  never  hold  up  my  head  again.  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  face  my  people.  I  shall  just  let 
myself  be  swallowed  up  in  London.  .  .  .  But  I  shan't 
trouble  any  of  my  friends.  When  I'm  a  pimp  I  shan't 
mind  if  you  look  the  other  way.  After  all,  it  isn't  so 
far  to  fall.  There's  not  much  difference  between  the  or- 
dinary artist  and  a  pimp." 

"Whaf  has  she  done  to  you  ?"  cried  Mendel  furiously. 
"Why  do  you  let  yourself  be  put  down  by  a  drab  like 
that?" 

"She's  not  a  drab,"  said  Mitchell,  in  a  curious  thin 
voice  of  protest.  "She  is  the  mother  of  my  child." 


158  MENDEL 


Mendel  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a 
thump,  so  that  the  cups  jumped  from  their  saucers. 

"She  is  what?" 

"The  mother  of  my  child,"  said  Mitchell,  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands.  "I  have  offered  to  marry  her,  to  make 
an  honest  woman  of  her,  but  she  refuses,  and  she  will 
take  nothing  from  me.  Gawd!  How  can  I  ever  face 
Morrison  again?  How  can  I  face  my  mother?" 

"Rubbish!  Rubbish!  Rubbish!"  cried  Mendel.  "Why 
you?  Why  not  Weldon — why  not  Calthrop?"  He  saw 
the  goggle-eyed  man  listening  eagerly  and  lowered  his 
voice.  "A  drab  like  that  deserves  all  she  gets.  She  takes 
her  risks,  and  I'll  say  this  for  her,  that  she  does  not  com- 
plain. She's  clever  enough  to  know  how  to  deal  with 
it.  .  .  ." 

He  wanted  to  say  a  great  deal  more,  but  realised  that 
Mitchell,  intent  upon  his  own  emotions,  was  not  listen- 
ing to  him.  Also,  through  the  fantastic  atmosphere,  he 
began  to  be  aware  of  a  reality  powerful  and  horrible. 
Against  it  Hetty  seemed  to  be  of  no  account,  and 
Mitchell's  excitement  was  palpably  false. 

This  reality  had  been  called  into  being  by  no  one's  will, 
and  therefore  it  was  horrible. 

"I  shall  have  to  disappear,"  said  Mitchell. 

Mendel  did  not  hear  him  speak.  His  own  will  was 
aroused  by  the  devastating  reality.  Because  it  was  phys- 
ical he  exulted  in  it,  and  his  will  struggled  to  master  it. 
He  could  not  endure  his  friend's  helplessness  and  he 
wanted  above  all  to  help  him,  to  make  him  see  that  this 
thing  was  at  least  powerful ;  evil  and  ugly,  perhaps,  but 
much  too  vital  to  be  subdued  or  conquered  by  fantasy  and 
theatrical  emotions.  He  found  Mitchell  bewildering. 
Sentimentality  always  baffled  him,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
so  superficial  as  to  be  not  worth  bothering  about  and 


THE  POT-AU-FEU  159 

so  complicated  as  to  defy  unravelling.  He  knew  that 
Mitchell  was  horrified  and  afraid,  and  that  it  was  nat- 
ural enough,  but  fear  was  not  a  thing  to  be  encouraged. 

He  said : 

"Hetty  knows  perfectly  well  that  she  can  manage  it 
better  without  you." 

"I  know,"  replied  Mitchell.  "That's  what  makes  me 
feel  such  an  awful  worm." 

Mendel  lost  all  patience.  If  a  man  was  going  to  take 
pleasure  in  feeling  a  worm,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
with  him.  He  called  the  waiter,  paid  the  bill,  and 
stumped  out  of  the  Pot-au-Feu  leaving  Mitchell  staring 
blankly  at  the  goggle-eyed  man. 

A  few  days  later  he  met  Edgar  Froitzheim  leaving  the 
National  Gallery  as  he  entered  it. 

"Oh !  Kiihler,"  said  Froitzheim.  "The  very  man  I 
wanted  to  see.  I  am  very  proud  about  the  picture — 
very  proud.  But  I  wanted  to  see  you  about  young 
Mitchell.  He  is  a  friend  of  yours,  isn't  he?  He  is  be- 
having very  badly  to  a  young  model.  Such  a  pretty  girl. 
Hetty  Finch.  You  know  her  ?  She  is  in  trouble  through 
him,  and  he  refused  to  do  anything  for  her.  I'm  told 
he  has  Nietzschean  ideas.  I  sent  for  the  girl.  It  is  a 
very  sad  story  and  I  have  raised  a  subscription  for  her: 
fifty  pounds  to  see  her  through.  .  .  .  Do  try  and  bring 
Mitchell  to  reason." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  replied  Mendel,  and  he  walked 
on  to  pay  his  daily  homage  to  Van  Eyck  and  Chardin, 
who  were  his  heroes  at  the  time. 

That  evening  at  the  Paris  Cafe  he  heard  of  another 
subscription  having  been  raised  for  Hetty,  and  Calthrop 
growled  and  grumbled  and  said  he  had  given  her  twenty 
pounds. 


160  MENDEL 


Mendel  reckoned  it  up  and  he  found  that  she  was  be- 
ing paid  for  her  delinquency  more  than  he  could  hope  to 
receive  for  many  months  of  painful  work. 

As  he  finished  his  calculation  he  was  amazed  to  see 
Mitchell  come  in  with  Morrison,  whom  he  had  declared 
he  could  never  face  again,  and  when  Mendel  rose  to  go 
over  and  join  them  she  gave  him  only  a  curt  little  nod 
which  told  him  plainly  that  he  was  not  wanted. 


CHAPTER  II 

LOGAN 


NCE  again  Mendel  decided  that  Mitchell,  and  with 
him  London  life,  had  fallen  away  from  him.  The 
Paris  Cafe  could  never  be  the  same  again,  and  he  plunged 
into  despair,  and  thought  seriously  of  accepting  a  Jewish 
girl  with  four  hundred  pounds  whom  a  match-maker  of- 
fered to  him.  Four  hundred  pounds  was  not  to  be 
sneezed  at.  It  would  keep  him  going  for  some  years,  so 
that  he  need  not  think  of  selling  his  pictures,  which 
he  always  hated  to  part  with.  And  the  girl  was  just 
bearable. 

The  figure  delighted  his  father  and  mother,  for  it 
showed  them  the  high  opinion  of  their  wonder-son  held 
among  their  own  people. 

It  was  terrible  to  him  to  find  that  he  had  very  little 
pleasure  in  his  work,  which  very  often  gave  him  excru- 
ciating pain.  He  took  it  to  mean  that  he  was  coming 
to  an  end  of  his  talent.  Night  after  night  he  sat  on  his 
bed  feeling  that  he  must  make  an  end  of  his  life,  but  al- 
ways there  was  some  piece  of  painting  that  he  must  do 
in  the  morning,  painful  though  it  might  be. 

He  had  letters  from  Mitchell,  but  did  not  answer  them, 
and  at  last  "the  schoolboy,"  as  Golda  called  him,  turned 
up,  gay  and  smiling  and  rather  elated. 

161 


162  MENDEL 


"I've  discovered  a  great  man,"  he  said  with  the  awk- 
ward, jerky  gesture  he  used  in  his  more  eloquent  mo- 
ments. "Absolutely  a  great  man.  Reminds  me  of  Na- 
poleon. Wonderful  head,  wonderful!  His  name  is  Lo- 
gan— James  Logan — and  he  wants  to  know  you.  He  is  a 
painter,  and  absolutely  independent.  He  comes  from  the 
North — Liverpool  or  one  of  those  places.  I  haven't  seen 
his  work,  but  I  met  him  at  the  Pot-au-Feu  the  other 
night.  He  asked  me  if  I  was  not  a  friend  of  yours,  as 
he  thought  he  had  seen  me  with  you.  He  said :  'Kiihler 
is  the  only  painter  of  genius  we  have.'  I  spent  the  eve- 
ning with  him.  I  never  heard  such  talk.  It  made  the  old 
Detmold  seem  like  a  girls'  school.  .  .  .  Hallo!  Still-life 
again?  What  a  rum  old  stick  you  are  for  never  going 
outside  your  four  walls!" 

"What  I  paint  is  inside  me,  not  outside,"  said  Mendel, 
trembling  with  rage  at  Mitchell  looking  at  his  work  be- 
fore he  had  offered  to  show  it. 

"Will  you  come  and  see  Logan?" 

"No.  I  am  sick  of  painters.  I  want  to  know  decent 
people." 

"But  I  promised  I  would  bring  you,  and  he  admires 
your  work.  He  is  poor  too,  as  poor  as  you  are." 

"Can't  he  sell?" 

"It  isn't  that  so  much  as  that  he  doesn't  try.  He  says 
he  had  almost  despaired  of  English  painting  until  he  saw 
your  work." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

,    "A  good  deal  older  than  us.     Twenty-six,  I  should 
think." 

"Why  don't  you  just  stick  to  me?"  asked  Mendel. 
"What  more  do  you  want?  Why  must  you  always  go 
off  on  a  new  track?  First  it's  Hetty  Finch,  then  it's 
Morrison,  and  now  it's  this  new  man.  We  were  happy 


LOGAN  163 

enough  by  ourselves.  Why  do  you  want  anything  more  ? 
I  don't."' 

"You're  used  to  living  on  dry  bread.  I'm  not.  I  want 
butter  with  mine,  and  jam,  if  I  can  get  it." 

"Then  get  it  and  don't  bother  me  to  go  chasing  after 
it.  I  want  to  work." 

"Oh,  rot !  All  that  stuff  about  artists  starving  in  gar- 
rets is  out  of  date.  It  only  happened  because  they  couldn't 
find  patrons,  but  nowadays  there  are  dealers  and  buyers. 
.  .  .  Just  look  at  the  money  you  are  making." 

"Then  why  is  this  Logan  poor?" 

"He  isn't  known  yet.  He  doesn't  know  the  artists 
because  he  never  went  to  a  London  school.  He  was  doing 
quite  well  in  the  North,  but  threw  it  all  up  because  he 
couldn't  stand  living  in  such  a  filthy  town.  He  had  a 
teaching  job  somewhere  in  Hammersmith,  but  he  threw 
that  up  because  he  wanted  his  time  to  himself." 

"That  sounds  as  if  painting  means  something  to  him." 

"Do  come  and  see  him." 

"Oh!  very  well." 

"I'll  send  him  a  wire  and  we'll  go  to-night." 

They  dined  at  the  Pot-au-Feu,  and  later  made  the  ex- 
pedition to  Hammersmith,  where  they  came  to  a  block 
of  studios  surrounded  by  a  scrubby  garden.  These  stu- 
dios were  large  and  well-kept  and  did  not  tally  with  the 
description  of  Logan's  poverty.  Still  less  did  the  inside 
give  any  sign  of  it.  There  was  a  huge  red-brick  fireplace, 
surmounted  by  old  brass  and  blue  china,  with  great  arm- 
chairs on  either  side  of  it:  there  were  Persian  rugs  on 
the  floor;  two  little  windows  were  filled  in  with  good 
stained  glass,  which  Mendel  knew  to  be  costly;  there 
were  two  or  three  large  easels ;  and  the  walls  were  hung 
with  tapestry.  The  whole  effect  was  deliberately  and 
preciously  rich. 


164  MENDEL 


Logan,  who  had  admitted  them  to  this  vast  apartment, 
rushed  back  at  once  to  a  very  large  easel  on  which  he  had 
a  very  small  canvas,  and  fell  to  work  on  it  with  a  furious 
energy,  darting  to  and  fro  and  stamping  his  right  foot 
rather  like  the  big  trumpet  man  in  a  German  band.  He 
was  a  medium-sized,  plumpish  man,  with  a  big,  strongly 
featured  face,  big  chin,  and  compressed  lips,  and  long 
black  hair  brushed  back  from  a  round,  well  shaped  brow. 
He  frowned  and  scowled  at  his  work.  A  woman  came 
out  of  a  door  and  crossed  the  studio  behind  him.  He 
hurled  his  palette  into  the  air  so  that  it  sailed  up  and 
fell  with  a  crash  among  the  brass  pots,  and  barked : — 

"How  can  I  work  with  these  constant  interruptions? 
Damn  it  all,  an  artist  must  have  peace!" 

He  flung  his  arms  behind  his  back  and  paced  moodily 
to  and  fro,  with  his  head  down  and  his  lips  pursed  up 
a  la  Beethoven.  He  extended  the  sphere  of  his  pacing 
gradually  so  that  he  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  Mendel, 
yet  without  noticing  him.  Mendel  was  tremendously  ex- 
cited and  impressed  with  the  man's  air  of  mystery  and 
force.  It  was  like  Calthrop,  but  without  his  awkward- 
ness. Mitchell  in  comparison  looked  puny  and  absurdly 
young. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  Logan,  and  at  last  he  stopped 
and  fixed  Mendel  with  a  baleful  stare,  and  swung  his 
head  up  and  down  three  times. 

"So  you  are  Kiihler?"  he  said. 

Mendel  opened  his  lips,  but  to  his  astonishment  no 
sound  came  out  of  them.  So  desperately  anxious  was  he 
not  to  cut  a  poor  figure  before  this  remarkable  man,  and 
not  to  seem,  like  Mitchell,  pathetically  young. 

"Good !"  said  Logan.  "Shake  hands."  And  he  crushed 
Mendel's  thin  fingers  together.  "What  I  like  about  you," 


LOGAN  165 

he  went  on,  "is  your  sense  of  form.  Design  is  all  very 
well  in  its  way,  but  quite  worthless  without  form." 

Mendel,  whose  work  was  still  three  parts  instinctive, 
could  not  attach  any  precise  meaning  to  these  expressions, 
but  he  was  well  up  in  the  jargon  of  his  craft  and  could 
make  a  good  show. 

"Art,"  said  Logan,  "is  an  exacting  mistress.  Shall  we 
go  and  have  a  drink  ?" 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  led  the  two  marvelling  young- 
sters to  a  public-house,  where  he  became  a  different  man 
altogether.  The  compression  of  his  lips  relaxed,  his  eyes 
twinkled  and  his  face  shone  with  good  humour,  and  he 
made  them  and  the  barmaid  and  the  two  or  three  men 
who  were  shyly  taking  their  beer  roar  with  laughter. 
He  had  an  extraordinary  gift  of  mimicry,  and  told  story 
after  story,  many  of  them  against  himself,  most  of  them 
without  point,  but  in  the  telling  exceedingly  comic.  Men- 
del sat  up  and  bristled.  It  was  to  him  half  shocking, 
half  enviable,  that  a  man,  and  an  artist,  should  be  able 
to  laugh  at  himself. 

"If  you'll  give  me  free  drinks  for  a  month,"  said 
Logan  to  the  elderly  barmaid,  "I'll  paint  your  portrait. 
Are  you  married ?  .  .  .  No?  I'll  paint  you  such  a  beau- 
tiful portrait  that  it  will  get  you  a  husband  inside  a  week." 

"I'm  not  on  the  marrying  lay,"  said  the  barmaid. 

"Terrible  thing,  this  revolt  against  marriage,"  replied 
Logan,  "and  bad  luck  on  us  artists.  I'm  always  getting 
babies  left  on  my  doorstep." 

"What  do  you  do  with  them  ?"  said  Mendel,  believing 
him,  and  astonished  when  the  others  roared  with  laughter. 

"I  keep  the  pretty  ones  and  sell  them  to  childless 
mothers.  Ah!  Many's  the  time  I've  gone  through  the 
snow,  like  the  heroine  in  a  melodrama  taking  her  child 
to  the  workhouse." 


166  MENDEL 


"Oh!  go  on,"  tittered  the  barmaid. 

"Certainly,"  said  Logan.     "Come  along." 

As  they  left  the  public-house  he  took  Mendel's  arm  and 
said : — 

"You  have  to  talk  to  people  in  their  own  language,  you 
know." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mendel,  though  this  was  precisely  what 
he  knew  least  of  all. 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  the  stage?"  asked  Mitchell. 

"I  have  thought  of  it.  I  think  I  might  do  well  on  the 
halls.  There's  a  life  for  you!  On  at  eight  in  Bethnal 
Green : — 

My  old  woman's  got  a  wart  on  her  nose; 
How  she  got  it  I  will  now  disclose. 

Off  again  in  a  motor-car  to  the  Oxford: — 

My  old  woman's  got  a  wart  on  her  nose. 

Off  again  to  Hammersmith  or  Kensal  Rise : — 

My  old  woman's  got  a  wart  on  her  nose. 

My  God!  What  a  life!  But  I  love  the  halls.  They  are 
all  that  is  left  of  old  England !" 

His  parody  of  the  low  comedian  was  so  apt  and  his 
voice  had  such  a  delicious  roll  that  Mendel  could  not  help 
laughing,  and  he  began  to  feel  very  happy  with  the  man. 

Logan  swung  back  to  his  serious  mood  and  gripped 
Mendel's  arm  tighter  as  he  said  : — 

"You  have  a  big  future  before  you.  Only  stick  to  it. 
Don't  listen  to  the  fools  who  want  you  to  paint  the  same 
picture  over  and  over  again  with  a  different  subject. 


LOGAN  167 

There's  more  stuff  in  that  one  little  picture  of  yours  than 
in  all  the  rest  of  the  exhibition  put  together." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Mendel,  fluttering  with  excite- 
ment. 

"I  was  amazed  when  I  heard  you  had  been  to  the  Det- 
mold  with  its  Calthrop  and  all  the  little  Calthrops." 

Both  the  youngsters  were  silent  on  that.  They  had 
often  abused  the  Detmold,  but  with  a  profound  respect 
in  their  hearts,  and  both  had  done  their  full  share  of  imi- 
tating Calthrop. 

When  they  reached  the  studio  Mitchell  suggested  go- 
ing, but  Logan  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  dragged  them 
in  and  produced  whisky  and  soda,  and  kept  them  talking 
far  into  the  small  hours.  His  bouncing  energy  kept  Men- 
del awake  and  alert,  but  Mitchell  was  soon  exhausted 
and  fell  asleep. 

''Shall  we  put  him  out  of  the  way?"  said  Logan  sud- 
denly. "No  one  would  know,  and  the  river  is  handy. 
He  is  too  clean,  too  soft,  and  there  are  too  many  like 
him.  They  are  in  the  way  of  real  men  like  you  and  me." 

Mendel  was  appalled  to  find  that  he  could  not  defend 
his  friend.  All  the  discontents  of  his  waning  friendship 
came  rushing  up  in  him  and  he  began  to  babble  violently. 

"He  is  a  liar  and  a  coward,  and  he  will  never  be  an 
artist  because  he  is  too  weak.  He  is  not  true.  He  is  not 
good.  I  have  trusted  him  with  my  secrets  and  he  tells. 
He  is  always  ashamed  of  me  because  of  my  clothes  and 
because  I  have  not  been  to  Public  School,  and  he  is  jeal- 
ous because  when  we  meet  women  they  like  me.  He  is 
soft  and  deceitful  with  them,  but  I  am  honest,  and  they 
like  that.  I  wanted  him  to  be  my  friend,  but  it  is  im- 
possible." 

"He  is  an  Englishman,"  said  Logan  sepulchrally,  with 
the  air  of  a  Grand  Inquisitor. 


168  MENDEL 


"Aren't  you  an  Englishman?" 

"No,  Scotch  and  French.  These  Englishmen  have  no 
passions,  unless  they  are  mad  like  Blake.  .  .  .  No,  no. 
We'll  drop  Mitchell  overboard.  We'll  make  him  walk 
the  plank,  and  fishes  in  the  caverns  of  the  sea  shall  eat  his 
eyes." 

Logan  was  beginning  to  assume  enormous  proportions 
in  Mendel's  eyes.  It  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  the 
tremendous  fellow  did  not  know.  He  began  to  talk  of 
genius  and  the  stirring  of  the  creative  impulse,  and  he 
gave  so  powerful  an  account  of  Blake  that  Mendel  began 
to  see  visions  of  heaven  and  hell.  Here  was  something 
which  he  could  acknowledge  as  larger  than  himself  with- 
out self-humiliation,  and,  indeed,  the  larger  it  loomed  the 
more  swiftly  did  he  himself  seem  to  grow.  It  was  such 
a  sensation  as  he  had  not  known  since  the  days  before 
his  rapture  with  Sara.  All  that  had  intervened  fell  away. 
That  purity  of  passion  returned  to  him  and,  choosing 
Logan  for  its  object,  rushed  upon  him  and  endowed  him 
with  its  own  power  and  beauty.  Logan  talking  of  Blake 
was  to  Mendel's  innocence  as  rare  as  Blake,  and  he 
adored  him. 

"I  had  almost  given  up  art,"  said  Logan ;  "I  had  almost 
given  it  up  as  hopeless.  How  can  there  be  art  in  a  de- 
spiritualised  country  like  this,  that  lets  all  its  traditions 
rot  away?  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  tossing  up  whether 
I  should  go  on  the  stage  or  take  to  spouting  at  the  street 
corners;  for  when  a  country  is  in  such  a  condition  that 
its  artists  are  stifled,  then  it  is  ripe  for  revolution.  I 
am  instinctive,  you  know,  like  Napoleon.  I  feel  that  we 
are  on  the  threshold  of  something  big,  and  that  I  am  to 
have  my  share  in  it.  I  used  to  think  it  would  happen  in 
art,  but  I  despaired  of  that.  It  seemed  to  me  that  art  in 
this  country  could  go  doddering  on  for  generations,  and 


LOGAN  169 

then  I  thought  it  needed  a  political  upheaval  to  push  it 
into  its  grave.  But  when  I  saw  your  work,  I  said  to 
myself :  Here  is  the  real  thing,  alive,  personal,  profound, 
skilled.  I  began  to  hope  again.  And  now  that  I  have 
met  you  I  feel  more  hopeful  still,  and,  let  me  tell  you, 
like  most  painters,  I  don't  find  it  easy  to  like  another 
man's  work." 

Mendel  was  fired.    Trembling  in  every  limb,  he  said : — 

"It  has  been  the  dream  of  my  life  to  find  a  friend 
who  would  work  with  me,  think  with  me,  go  with  me, 
share  with  me,  not  quarrelling  with  me  because  I  am  not 
this,  that,  and  the  other,  but  accepting  me  as  I  am — a 
man  who  has  no  country,  no  home,  no  love  but  art." 

"That,"  said  Logan,  with  a  portentous  scowl  and  a 
downward  jab  of  his  thumb,  "is  what  I  have  been  look- 
ing for — some  one,  like  yourself,  who  was  absolutely  sin- 
cere, absolutely  single-minded  and  resolute.  The  spirit 
of  art  has  brought  us  together.  We  will  serve  it  to- 
gether." 

They  shook  hands  like  young  men  on  the  stage,  and 
Logan  fetched  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

Mitchell  woke  up,  saying : — ' 

"Gawd !  I've  been  asleep.  Have  you  two  been  talking? 
Gawd!  It's  two  o'clock." 

"I'll  walk  home  with  you,"  said  Logan.  "We  can  keep 
to  the  river  nearly  the  whole  way  by  going  from  side 
to  side." 

So  they  walked  while  the  tide  came  up,  sucking  and 
lapping,  while  the  red  dragons'  eyes  of  the  barges  came 
swinging  up  on  it,  moving  up  and  down  in  a  slow,  ir- 
regular rhythm.  It  was  very  cold  and  the  sky  was 
thickly  powdered  with  stars,  whose  pin-prick  lights  were 
reflected  in  the  smooth  water. 

Upon  the  dome  of  the  young  artist's  vision  that  had 


iyo  MENDEL 


before  been  black  with  infinite  space,  stars  shone  with 
a  tender  light.  He  was  in  ecstasy,  and  seemed  to  be 
skimming  above  the  ground,  hardly  touching  it  with  his 
feet.  This  long  walk  was  like  an  exquisite  dance,  while 
Logan's  rollings  were  like  a  pipe.  .  .  .  Often  he  sank 
into  a  dream  that  he  was  upon  a  grassy  hill  in  a  moun- 
tainy  place,  he  and  his  friend,  who  played  upon  a  pipe  so 
mournfully  yet  gaily  while  he  danced,  and  from  the  trees 
fell  silvery  dewdrops  and  the  songs  of  birds,  which  turned 
into  pennies  as  they  reached  the  ground  and  rolled  away 
down  the  hill. 

Both  he  and  Logan  were  relieved  when  Mitchell,  who 
had  interrupted  them  with  inappropriate  remarks,  turned 
aside  at  Vauxhall  and  vanished  into  London. 

"So  much  for  Mitchell,"  said  Logan.  "You  and  I 
need  sterner  stuff.  You  and  I  are  sprung  from  those 
among  whom  life  is  lived  bravely  and  bitterly,  and  we 
have  no  use  for  its  parasites.  You  and  I  will  only  emerge 
from  the  bitterness  on  condition  that  we  can  make  of 
life  a  spiritual  thing,  for  we  are  of  those  who  seek  au- 
thority. Life  has  none  to  offer  us  now,  for  all  the  forms 
of  life  are  broken.  Neither  above  us  nor  below  is  there 
authority,  neither  in  heaven  nor  in  hell.  We  must  seek 
authority  within  ourselves,  in  the  marriage  of  heaven 
and  hell,  in  the  consummation  of  good  and  evil,  the  two 
poles  of  our  nature.  It  is  for  us,  the  artists,  to  bring 
them  together,  to  liberate  good  and  evil  in  ourselves,  that 
they  may  rush  to  the  consummation.  We  are  the  priests 
and  the  prophets,  and  we  must  in  no  wise  be  false  to 
our  vision." 

Mendel  could  not  fit  all  this  in  with  his  mood  and 
his  delicious  dreams,  and  when  it  brought  him  back  to  his 
sober  senses,  he  could  not  see  what  it  had  to  do  with 
painting.  However,  Logan  put  things  right  by  saying : — 


LOGAN  171 

"You  are  a  poet.  You  are  like  Heine.  I  can  see  you 
with  your  little  Josepha  the  pale,  the  executioner's  daugh-  ' 
ter.  God  rot  my  soul!  It  is  years  since  I  had  such  in- 
spiration as  you  have  given  me.  I  think  there  must  be 
Jewish  blood  in  me,  for  I  can  certainly  understand  you 
through  and  through,  and  you  have  waked  something 
in  me  that  has  always  been  asleep.  Oh!  we  shall  paint 
bonny  pictures — bonny,  bonny  pictures." 

"You  must  come  to  see  me  every  day,"  said  Mendel, 
"and  every  night  we  will  go  out  together,  and  I  must  in- 
troduce you  to  my  mother,  for  she  too  has  good  words." 

Logan  smacked  his  lips  as  they  entered  the  grimy 
streets  near  Spitalfields. 

"Pah !"  he  said ;  "that's  life,  that  is,  good  dirty  life.  I 
was  littered  in  a  farm-yard  myself  and  I  like  a  good 
smell.  .  .  .  Can  you  put  me  up  to-night?  I  don't  mind 
sleeping  on  the  floor." 

"You  can  have  my  bed,"  said  Mendel,  "and  I  will  sleep 
downstairs  on  my  brother's  sofa.  Please — please.  Do 
sleep  in  my  bed." 

Logan  accepted  the  offer  and  asked  Mendel  to  stay 
with  him  while  he  undressed.  He  was  unpleasantly  fat, 
but  strong  and  well-built. 

He  stayed  for  a  long  time  in  front  of  the  mirror. 

"See  that  bulge  on  the  side  of  my  head?"  he  said  as 
he  turned. 

Mendel  looked,  and  sure  enough  his  head  had  a  curi- 
ous bulge  on  its  right  side. 

"I  had  rickets  when  I  was  young,"  said  Logan,  "and 
my  skull  must  have  got  pushed  over.  I  expect  that's 
what  makes  me  what  I  am — lopsided.  I  need  you  to  bal- 
ance me." 

He  got  into  bed,  and  Mendel,  reluctant  to  leave  him, 
sat  at  his  feet  and  devoured  him  with  his  eyes. 


172  MENDEL 


"Surely,  surely,  now,"  he  thought,  "all  is  perfect  now. 
No  more  disturbances,  no  more  Mitchells,  no  more 
Hettys,  and  I  shall  do  only  what  I  really  wish  to  do." 

He  stole  out  into  his  studio,  which  was  faintly  lit  from 
the  street  below,  and  it  was  as  though  it  were  filled  with 
some  vast  spiritual  presence,  and  he  imagined  how  he 
would  work,  urged  on  by  this  new  energy  that  came  wel- 
ling up  through  all  that  he  could  see,  all  that  he  could 
know,  all  that  he  could  remember. 


CHAPTER  III 

LOGAN    SETS    TO    WORK 


T  N  the  morning  he  was  awakened  by  his  sister-in-law, 
•*•    Rosa,  shaking  him  and  saying : — 

"Mendel!  Mendel!  What  are  you  doing  on  the  sofa? 
Wake  up!  Wake  up!  There  is  some  one  in  your  stu- 
dio." 

The  house  was  ringing  with  Logan's  voice  chanting 
the  Magnificat.  Mendel  ran  upstairs  and  found  him  in 
bed  with  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  the  New  Testament, 
that  fatal  book,  on  his  knees. 

"Hello !"  he  said.  "I  hope  I  didn't  wake  you  up.  I 
have  been  awake  for  a  couple  of  hours  looking  at  your 
work.  I  hope  you  don't  mind.  There's  a  still-life  there 
that's  a  gem,  as  good  as  Chardin,  and  even  better,  for 
there's  always  something  sentimental  about  Chardin — 
always  the  suggestion  of  the  old  folks  at  home,  the  false 
dramatic  touch,  the  idea  of  the  hard-working  French 
peasant  coming  in  presently  to  eat  the  bread  and  drink 
the  wine,  I  think  it's  time  you  were  written  up  in  the 
papers.  It's  absurd  for  a  man  like  you  to  have  to  wait 
for  success.  There's  no  artistic  public  in  England,  so 
you  can't  be  successful  in  your  own  way.  The  British 
public  must  have  its  touch  of  melodrama.  To  accept  a 
man's  work  it  must  first  have  him  shrouded  in  legend. 

173 


174  MENDEL 


He  must  be  a  myth.  His  work  must  seem  to  come  from 
some  supernatural  source." 

"I'll  just  run  over  and  tell  my  mother  you  are  here," 
said  Mendel.  "I  always  have  breakfast  there,  and  then 
go  for  a  walk  while  the  studio  is  dusted." 

"Right  you  are !  I'll  be  up  in  half  a  jiffy.  Can  I  have 
a  bath?" 

"No.    There's  no  bath." 

"Very  well;  I  can  do  without  for  once." 

Mendel  ran  round  to  Golda  and  told  her  of  the  won- 
derful man  who  was  in  his  studio,  and  he  described  the 
adventure  of  the  previous  evening.  Golda  looked  scared 
and  said : — 

"What  next?  What  next?  Good  people  sleep  in  their 
own  beds." 

"But  this  man  is  an  artist  and  he  talks  like  a  book." 

"Talk  is  easy,"  said  Golda.  "But  it  takes  years  to 
make  a  friend." 

However,  when  Logan  was  brought  to  her  she  was 
polite  to  him  and  rather  shy.  He  told  her  that  fame 
was  coming  to  her  son  faster  than  the  wind. 

"Too  fast,"  said  she. 

"It  can  never  come  too  fast,"  replied  Logan.  "The 
thirst  for  fame  is  a  curse  to  an  artist.  Let  it  be  satis- 
fied and  he  is  free  for  his  work.  I  know,  for  I  was  very 
famous  in  my  own  town.  I  sickened  of  it  and  ran  away. 
...  I  must  congratulate  you  on  letting  your  son  follow 
his  bent.  I  had  to  quarrel  with  my  own  people  to  get  my 
way.  I  haven't  seen  them  since  I  was  fourteen." 

"Not  your  mother?"  said  Golda,  greatly  upset. 

Logan  saw  that  he  had  made  an  awkward  impres- 
sion and  hastened  to  put  it  right  by  saying  lugubri- 
ously : — 

"My  mother  is  dead.     She  forgave  me." 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  175 

He  allowed  that  to  sink  in  and  was  silent  for  a  minute 
or  two.  Then  he  chattered  on  gaily  and  asked  Golda  to 
come  and  see  him,  and  bragged  about  his  studio  and  his 
work  and  his  friends,  and  of  a  commission  he  had  to  dec- 
orate a  large  house  in  a  West  End  square.  He  talked 
so  fast  that  Golda  understood  very  little  of  what  he 
said,  but  she  never  took  her  eyes  off  him,  and  when  he 
said  good-bye,  Mendel  noticed  that  she  did  not  bob  to 
him  as  she  did  to  Mitchell  and  Morrison  and  his  other 
polite  friends.  He  took  that  to  mean  that  she  accepted 
Logan  as  a  person  above  these  formalities. 

For  an  hour  they  walked  through  the  streets  and 
squares  of  the  East  End,  Mendel  proud  to  display  the 
vivid  scenes  he  intended  later  on  to  make  into  pictures. 

When  they  returned  to  the  studio  Logan  insisted  on 
seeing  all  the  pictures  and  drawings  again. 

"Are  you  in  touch  with  any  dealer?"  he  asked. 

"Cluny  has  a  few  pictures  and  a  dozen  drawings.  He 
never  does  anything  with  them." 

"Hum!"  said  Logan.  "Dealers  are  mysterious  people. 
They  can  only  sell  things  that  sell  themselves.  By  the 
way,  I  am  giving  up  my  studio  in  Hammersmith.  It 
is  too  far  away.  I  shall  come  nearer  in.  Har — "— "lith 
was  all  very  well  while  I  needed  isolation,  but  that  is  all 
over  now." 

"Where  shall  you  go  to  ?" 

"Bloomsbury,  I  think.  I  like  to  be  near  the  British 
Museum.  Do  you  go  to  the  British  Museum?  I  must 
show  you  round.  It  is  no  good  going  there  unless  you 
know  what  to  look  for.  By  the  way,  I  came  out  without 
any  money  last  night.  Can  you  lend  me  five  pounds?" 

Mendel  wrote  a  cheque  and  handed  it  to  him  shame- 
facedly. 


176  MENDEL 


"I  want  to  pay  a  bill  on  my  way  home,"  said  Logan. 
"I  hate  being  in  debt,  especially  for  colours." 

"I  get  my  colours  from  Cluny,"  said  Mendel,  "and 
he  sets  them  against  anything  he  may  sell." 

The  irruption  of  money  had  depressed  him,  and  he  be- 
gan to  realise  that  he  was  very  tired.  The  springs  of 
Rosa's  sofa  had  bored  into  him  and  prevented  his  getting 
any  real  sleep. 

He  was  not  sorry  when  Logan  went,  after  making 
him  promise  to  meet  him  at  the  Pot-au-Feu  for  dinner. 

He  had  a  model  coming  at  eleven,  but  when  she  arrived 
he  sent  her  away.  He  was  sore  and  dissatisfied.  The 
studio  seemed  dark  and  dismal,  and  he  could  not  get 
enough  light  on  to  his  work.  He  took  it  right  up  to  the 
window,  but  still  there  was  not  enough  light,  and  his 
picture  looked  dull  and  dingy.  His  nerves  throbbed 
and  he  was  troubled  in  spirit,  for  now  his  old  dreams  of 
painting  quietly  among  his  own  people  while  fame  gath- 
ered about  his  name  had  suddenly  become  childish  and 
pathetic.  He  was  ignorant,  futile,  conceited,  a  pigmy 
by  the  side  of  the  gigantic  Logan,  who  would  not  wait 
upon  the  world,  but  would  compel  its  attention  and  shape 
it  to  his  will.  What  had  he  said  artists  were?  Priests 
and  prophets?  .  .  .  How  could  a  man  prophesy  with  a 
painting  of  a  fish  ? 

Downstairs  he  heard  Issy  come  in  for  his  dinner, 
and  there  was  the  usual  snarling  row  because  Rosa 
cooked  so  vilely.  Mendel  compared  Issy's  life  and  his 
own:  Issy  working  day  in,  day  out,  earning  just  enough 
to  keep  himself  alive.  Why  did  he  go  on  with  it?  Why 
did  he  keep  himself  alive?  Why  did  he  not  clear  out, 
like  Harry?  There  was  no  pleasure  in  his  life,  neither 
the  time  nor  the  money  for  it.  ...  A  wretched  business. 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  177 

But  was  it  less  wretched  than  this  business  of  paint- 
ing? There  was  more  money  in  painting,  and  that  was 
all  anybody  seemed  to  think  of.  People  wanted  the 
same  picture  over  and  over  again,  and  if  he  consented 
to  please  them,  his  life  would  be  just  as  poor  a  thing  as 
Issy's,  except  that  he  would  have  pleasure,  and,  through 
his  friends,  an  occasional  taste  of  luxury.  At  best  he 
could  be  polite  and  gentlemanly,  like  Mitchell,  bringing 
no  more  to  art  and  getting  no  more  out  of  it  than  a 
boyish  excitement,  as  though  art  were  a  game  and  could 
give  no  more  than  a  sensation  of  cleanliness,  like  a  hot 
bath. 

No,  it  would  not  do.    It  would  not  do. 

It  was  a  lie,  too,  to  say  that  the  Jews  only  cared  about 
money.  When  they  were  overfed,  like  Maurice  Birn- 
baum,  they  were  like  all  the  other  overfed  people,  but 
when  they  were  simple  and  normal  they  were  better  than 
the  others,  because  they  had  always  a  sense  of  mystery 
and  did  not  waste  themselves  in  foolish  laughter. 

That  was  where  Logan  was  true.  He  could  laugh, 
because  all  the  Christians  laugh,  but  when  it  came  to  sol- 
emn things  he  could  talk  about  them  as  though  he  were 
not  half  ashamed.  Mitchell,  for  instance,  always  shied 
away  from  the  truth.  Why  was  he  afraid  of  it?  The 
truth,  good  or  bad,  was  always  somehow  beautiful,  in- 
vigorating, and  releasing.  All  the  pleasant  things  that 
Mitchell  cared  about  Mendel  found  stifling.  Nothing,  he 
knew,  could  make  life  altogether  pleasant,  and  all  the 
falsehoods  which  were  used  in  that  attempt  were  con- 
temptible. They  strangled  impulse  and  frankness,  and 
without  these  how  could  there  be  art? 

In  his  unhappy  dreams  Logan  appeared  like  a  figure 
of  Blake,  immense,  looming  prophetic,  beckoning  to 


178  MENDEL 


achievement  and  away  from  the  chatter  and  fuss  of  the 
world  of  artists. 

Yet  behind  Logan  there  was  still  the  figure  of  Mitchell, 
young  and  gay,  and  the  idea  of  Mitchell  led  to  the  idea 
of  Morrison. 

There  were  some  withered  flowers  on  his  painting- 
table,  the  last  she  had  sent  him.  None  had  come  since 
that  evening  in  the  Paris  Cafe  when  she  had  nodded 
curtly  to  show  him  that  he  was  not  wanted. 

He  would  not  be  thrust  aside  like  that.  He  knew 
himself  to  be  worth  a  thousand  Mitchells.  Logan  had 
said  that  Mitchell  was  rubbish,  and  not  even  in  the  eyes 
of  a  slip  of  a  girl  would  Mendel  have  Mitchell  set  above 
himself.  Not  for  one  moment  was  it  tolerable.  He 
would  keep  Morrison  to  her  promises  and  make  her  come 
to  have  her  portrait  painted,  and  he  would  find  out  what 
there  was  in  her  that  made  him  remember  her  so  dis- 
tinctly and  so  clearly  separate  her  from  all  other  girls. 
Somehow  the  thought  of  her  cooled  the  intoxication  in 
which  he  had  been  left  by  Logan.  She  offered,  perhaps, 
another  way  out  of  his  present  state  of  congestion  and 
dissatisfaction.  Very  clearly  she  brought  back  to  his 
mind  the  thrilling  delight  with  which  he  had  worked 
as  a  boy,  and  that  was  true,  truer  than  anything  else  he 
had  ever  known.  .  .  .  Ah!  If  he  could  only  get  back 
to  that,  with  all  the  tricks  and  cunning  he  had  learned. 

He  would  get  back  to  it  some  day,  but  he  must  fight 
for  it;  with  Logan  he  would  learn  how  to  fight.  Logan 
would  lay  his  immense  store  of  knowledge  before  him, 
and  give  him  books  to  read,  and  teach  him  how  to  be  so 
easy  and  familiar  with  ideas,  which  at  present  only 
frothed  in  his  mind  like  waves  thinning  themselves  out 
on  the  sea-shore. 

He  wrote  an  impassioned  and  insolent  letter  to  Morri- 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  179 

son  commanding  her  presence  at  his  studio  and  inform- 
ing her  that  he  was  worth  a  thousand  of  her  ordinary  as- 
sociates, and  that  she  had  hurt  him,  and  that  girls  ought 
not  to  hurt  men  of  acknowledged  talent.  This  letter  cost 
him  a  great  deal  of  pain  and  time,  because  he  was  careful 
not  to  make  any  slip  in  spelling  or  grammar.  It  was 
more  a  manifesto  than  a  letter,  and  he  wished  to  do  noth- 
ing to  impair  its  dignity. 

And  all  the  time  he  was  puzzled  to  know  why  he 
should  care  about  her  at  all.  He  was  prepared  to  throw 
everything — his  success,  the  Detmold,  his  friends — to  the 
winds  to  follow  Logan,  but  Morrison  he  could  not  throw 
away. 

He  decided  at  last  not  to  send  the  letter  but  to  go  him- 
self, and  he  went  to  the  Detmold  just  as  the  light  was 
fading  and  he  knew  she  would  be  leaving. 

She  had  gone  already,  but  he  met  Clowes,  who,  he 
knew,  lived  with  her.  He  pounced  on  her  and  said : — 

"You  must  come  to  tea  with  me." 

"I'm  afraid  I  ..." 

"You  must !    You  must !" 

She  saw  he  was  very  excited  and  she  had  heard  stories 
of  his  bursting  into  tears  when  he  was  thwarted.  In 
some  alarm  she  consented  to  go  with  him. 

He  led  her  to  a  teashop,  a  horrible  place  that  smelt  of 
dishwater  and  melted  butter,  made  her  sit  at  a  table,  and 
burst  at  once  into  a  tirade : — 

"You  are  Morrison's  friend.  Will  you  tell  me  why  she 
has  avoided  me?  She  came  to  my  studio  once  and  she 
said  she  would  come  again.  She  sent  me  flowers  for 
three  weeks,  but  she  has  sent  no  more." 

"She — she  is  very  forgetful,"  said  Clowes,  who  was 
longing  for  tea  but  did  not  dare  to  tell  him  to  turn  to  the 
waitress,  who  was  hovering  behind  him. 


i8o  MENDEL 


"But  she  nodded  to  me  as  if  she  had  hardly  met  me 
before,"  said  Mendel. 

"She  is  very  shy,"  said  Clowes,  framing  the  word 
"Tea"  with  her  lips  and  nodding  brightly  to  the  waitress. 
She  added  kindly: — 

"I  don't  think  sending  flowers  means  much  with  her. 
She  gives  flowers  to  heaps  of  people.  She  is  a  very  odd 
girl." 

"Does  she  give  flowers  to  Mitchell?"  he  asked  furi- 
ously, coming  at  last  with  great  relief  to  the  consuming 
thought  in  his  mind. 

"Yes,"  said  Clowes.  "She  is  very  unhappy  about 
Mitchell  and  that  Hetty  Finch  affair." 

"Has  he  told  her  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  did  he  tell  her?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  cried  Mendel.  "I'll  tell  you.  To  make 
himself  interesting  to  her,  because  he  is  not  interesting. 
He  is  nothing.  And  I  will  tell  you  something  more.  He 
has  been  telling  her  things  about  me  to  excuse  himself. 
Now,  hasn't  he?  ...  I  can  see  by  your  face  that  he 
has."  Clowes  could  not  deny  it,  and  she  found  it  hard 
to  conceal  her  distress.  She  was  unused  to  intimate  af- 
fairs being  dragged  out  into  the  open  like  this,  and  her 
modesty  was  shocked.  She  had  a  pretty,  intelligent  face, 
and  she  looked  for  the  moment  like  a  startled  hare,  the 
more  so  when  she  put  her  handkerchief  up  to  her  nose 
with  a  gesture  like  that  of  a  hare  brushing  its  whiskers. 

"Very  well,  then,"  Mendel  continued ;  "you  can  tell  her 
you  have  seen  me,  and  you  can  tell  her  that  I  shall  come 
to  explain  myself.  I  hide  nothing,  for  I  am  ashamed  of 
nothing  that  I  do.  I  have  no  need  to  excuse  myself.  I 
am  not  a  gentleman  one  moment  and  a  cad  the  next.  And 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  181 

you  can  tell  Morrison  that  if  I  see  her  with  Mitchell 
again  I  shall  knock  him  down." 

"Do  please  drink  your  tea,"  said  Clowes.  "It  is  getting 
cold." 

Mendel  gulped  down  his  tea  and  hastened  to  add: — 

"I  am  not  boasting.  He  is  bigger  than  I  am,  but  I 
know  something  about  boxing.  My  brother  was  nearly  a 
prizefighter." 

Clowes  began  to  recover  from  her  alarm,  and  his  im- 
mense seriousness  struck  her  as  very  comic. 

"Did  you  know  that  Greta  has  cut  her  hair  short?" 

"Her  hair?"  cried  Mendel.     "Her  beautiful  hair?" 

"Yes.  She  looks  so  sweet,  but  the  boys  call  after  her 
in  the  streets.  All  the  girls  are  wild  to  do  it." 

"Her  hair?     Her  beautiful  hair?    Why?" 

"Oh !  she  got  sick  of  putting  it  up.  She  is  like  that. 
She  suddenly  does  something  you  don't  expect." 

"But  she  must  look  terrible!" 

"Oh,  no.  She  looks  too  sweet.  And  if  all  the  boys 
at  the  Detmold  wear  their  hair  long,  I  don't  see  why 
the  girls  shouldn't  wear  theirs  short." 

"My  mother  had  her  head  shaved  when  she  married," 
said  he,  "and  she  wore  a  wig." 

"Why  did  she  do  that?" 

"It  is  the  custom.  The  woman  shows  that  she  belongs 
wholly  to  her  husband  and  makes  herself  unattractive 
to  all  other  men." 

"What  a  horrible  idea!" 

"It  is  a  beautiful  idea.  It  is  the  idea  of  love  independ- 
ent of  everything  else.  That  is  why  I  thought  Morrison 
must  have  some  reason  for  cutting  her  hair." 

"When  you  know  Greta,  you  will  know  that  she  doesn't 
wait  for  reasons." 

"Why  does  she  like  Mitchell?" 


182  MENDEL 


"She  likes  nearly  everybody." 

"But  she  writes  to  him." 

"Of  course  she  does,"  said  Clowes,  rather  bored  with 
his  persistence. 

"But  she  doesn't  write  to  me." 

"You  don't  write  to  her.  You  can't  expect  her  to  fall 
at  your  feet." 

As  she  said  this  Clowes  realised  his  extraordinary  Ori- 
entalism. She  could  see  him  holding  up  his  finger  and 
expecting  a  woman  to  come  at  his  bidding,  and  for  a 
moment  she  was  repelled  by  him.  But  she  was  a  kind- 
hearted  creature  and  felt  very  sorry  for  him,  for  he 
seemed  so  utterly  at  sea  and  was  obviously  full  of  genu- 
ine and  painful  emotion. 

He  detected  her  repulsion  at  once  and  perceived  the 
effort  she  made  to  conquer  it,  and  was  at  once  grateful 
to  her,  for,  as  a  rule,  when  that  happened,  people  let  it 
swamp  everything  else. 

She  said : — 

"I'll  tell  Greta  what  you  have  said  to  me,  and  I  am 
sure  she  will  be  very  sorry  to  have  hurt  you." 

"I  only  want  her  to  come  and  sit  for  her  portrait.  It 
is  very  important  to  me,  because  I  want  to  try  new  sub- 
jects and  there  is  some  lovely  drawing  in  her  face." 

"But  you  mustn't  knock  Mitchell  down.  He  is  quite 
a  nice  boy,  really,  only  a  little  wild." 

"He  is  rotten,"  said  Mendel  dogmatically. 

He  felt  better,  and  until  dinner-time  he  prowled  about 
Tottenham  Court  Road  and  Soho,  a  region  of  London 
that  he  particularly  loved — a  vibrant,  nondescript  region 
where  innumerable  streams  of  vitality  met  and  fused,  or 
clashed  together  to  make  a  froth  and  a  spume.  It  was 
like  himself,  chaotic  and  rawly  alive,  compounded  of 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  183 

elements  that  knew  no  tradition  or  had  escaped  from  it. 
He  felt  at  home  in  it,  and  elated  because  he  was  also  con- 
scious of  being  superior  to  it,  yet  without  the  dizzy  sense 
of  superiority  that  assailed  him  among  his  own  people, 
while  he  was  never  shocked  and  humiliated,  as  he  was 
sometimes  in  sedate  and  prosperous  London,  by  being 
made  suddenly  to  realise  his  external  inferiority.  He 
loved  the  shop-girls  hurrying  excitedly  from  their  work 
to  their  pleasure,  and  he  sometimes  spoke  to  them  in 
their  own  slang,  sometimes  went  home  with  them.  .  .  . 
They  always  liked  him  because  he  never  wasted  time 
over  silly  flirtatious  jokes  or  pretended  to  be  in  love  with 
them.  His  interest  and  curiosity,  like  theirs,  were  purely 
physical,  and  his  passion  gave  them  a  delicious  sense  of 
danger. 

Logan  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  Pot-au-Feu.  There 
was  no  one  else  in  the  restaurant  but  the  goggle-eyed 
man  in  his  corner.  Logan  was  sitting  Napoleonically 
with  his  arms  on  the  table  and  his  chin  sunk  on  his  chest, 
with  his  lips  compressed. 

He  nodded,  but  did  not  get  up. 

"Sorry  if  I'm  late,"  said  Mendel.  "I  went  for  a  walk. 
I  couldn't  work  to-day.  My  sister-in-law's  sofa — I  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  beaten  all  over." 

"That's  the  walk  home,"  said  Logan.  "I'm  used  to 
it.  The  hours  I've  spent  walking  about  this  infernal 
London !  I've  slept  on  the  Embankment,  you  know." 

"No?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  as  far  down  as  that,  though  I'm  not 
the  sort  of  man  who  can  be  kept  down.  Did  you  know 
that  Napoleon  was  out-at-elbows  for  a  whole  year?" 

"No ;  I  don't  know  much  about  Napoleon." 


184  MENDEL 


"Ah!  You  should.  I  read  every  book  about  him  I 
can  lay  hands  on.  Gustave!" 

The  waiter  came  up  and  Logan  ordered  a  very  special 
dinner  with  the  air  of  knowing  the  very  inmost  secrets 
of  the  establishment.  He  demanded  orange  bitters  before 
the  meal  and  a  special  brand  of  cigarette. 

"My  day  hasn't  been  wasted,"  he  said.  "I've  been 
to  Cluny's  and  I  asked  to  see  your  stuff.  The  little  man 
there  looked  astonished,  but  I  told  him  people  were  talk- 
ing of  no  one  else  but  you,  and  quite  rightly.  I  talked 
to  him  from  the  dealer's  point  of  view,  and  assured  him 
that  there  was  a  big  boom  in  pictures  coming,  and  that 
he  had  better  be  prepared  for  it  with  a  handful  of 
new  men.  I  didn't  let  him  know  that  I  was  a  painter, 
but  I  got  him  quite  excited,  and  I  did  not  leave  him  until 
he  had  hung  a  picture  and  two  drawings." 

"Which  picture?" 

"The  one  of  your  mother's  kitchen.  It  is  one  of  your 
best.  To-morrow  three  men  will  walk  into  Cluny's  and 
they  will  admire  your  work.  On  the  day  after  to-morrow 
a  real  buyer  will  walk  in." 

Mendel's  eyes  grew  larger  and  larger.  Was  Logan 
a  magician,  that  he  could  direct  human  beings  into  Clu- 
ny's shop  and  conduct  them  straight  to  his  work? 

Logan  laughed  at  his  amazement. 

"Lord  love-a-duck !"  he  said,  "you're  not  going  to  sit 
still  and  wait  for  commercial  fools  to  discover  that  you 
know  your  job.  At  my  first  exhibition  in  Liverpool  I  put 
on  a  false  beard  and  went  in  and  bought  one  of  my  own 
pictures,  just  to  encourage  the  dealer  and  the  timid  idiots 
who  were  too  shy  to  go  and  ask  him  the  price  of  the 
drawings.  It  worked,  and  this  is  going  to  work  too. 
When  I've  warmed  Cluny  up  into  selling  you,  then  I'm 
going  to  make  him  sell  me.  If  you  don't  mind  we'll  have 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  185 

our  names  bracketed, — Kiihler  and  Logan.  People  will 
believe  in  two  men  when  they  won't  in  one.  As  for 
three,  you've  only  got  to  look  at  the  Trinity  to  see  what 
they'll  believe  when  they  get  three  working  together. 
...  Oh!  I  forgot  you  were  a  Jew  and  brought  up  to 
believe  in  One  is  One  and  all  alone." 

He  laughed  and  gave  a  fat  chuckle  as  he  mimicked 
the  little  man  in  Cluny's  cocking  his  head  on  one  side 
and  pretending  to  take  in  the  beauties  of  Mendel's  work 
as  they  were  pointed  out  to  him. 

"I  have  enjoyed  myself,"  said  Logan.  "By  God!  I 
wish  there  were  a  revolution.  I'd  have  my  finger  in  the 
pie.  Oh!  what  lovely  legs  there'd  be  to  pull — all  the 
world's  and  his  wife's  as  well.  But  it  won't  come  in  my 
time." 

Under  Logan's  influence  Mendel  began  to  enjoy  his 
food,  which  he  had  always  treated  as  a  tiresome  neces- 
sity before.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  sipped  his  wine 
and  crumbled  up  his  bread  exactly  as  Logan  did ;  and  he 
had  a  delicious  sense  of  leisure  and  well-being,  as  though 
nothing  mattered  very  much.  And,  indeed,  when  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  nothing  did  matter.  He  had  years 
and  years  ahead  of  him,  and  here  was  good  solid  pleasure 
in  front  of  him,  so  that  he  had  only  to  dip  his  hands  in 
it  and  take  and  take.  .  .  . 

After  the  dinner  Logan  ordered  cigars,  coffee,  and 
liqueurs,  and  Mendel  felt  very  lordly.  The  restaurant 
had  filled  up,  and  among  the  rest  were  Mitchell  and  Mor- 
rison. 

Mendell  turned,  gave  them  a  curt  nod,  and  could  not 
restrain  a  grin  of  satisfaction  as  he  thought  that  score 
was  settled.  He  leaned  forward  and  gave  himself  up  to 
the  pleasure  of  Logan's  talk. 

"What  I  contend,"  said  Logan,  "is  this — and  mind 


186  MENDEL 


you,  I  let  off  my  youthful  gas  years  ago.  I've  been  earn- 
ing my  living  since  I  was  fourteen,  so  I  know  a  little  of 
what  the  world's  like.  I've  been  in  offices  and  shops,  and 
on  the  land,  in  hotels,  on  the  railway,  on  the  road  as  a 
bagman,  from  house  to  house  as  a  tallyman,  and  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about.  The  artist  is  a  free  man,  and 
therefore  an  outlaw,  because  the  world  is  full  of  timid 
slaves  who  lie  in  the  laps  of  women.  If  an  artist  is  not 
a  free  man,  then  he  is  not  an  artist.  And  I  say  that  if  the 
artist  is  outlawed,  then  he  must  use  any  and  every  means 
to  get  out  of  the  world  what  it  denies  him.  One  must 
live." 

"That's  true,"  said  Mendel. 

"You  may  take  it  from  me  that  there  is  less  room  in 
the  world  now  for  artists  than  ever  there  was.  In  the 
old  days  you  chose  your  patron  and  he  provided  for 
you,  as  the  Pope  provided  for  Michael  Angelo,  and  you 
devoted  your  art  to  whatever  your  patron  stood  for, 
spiritual  power  if  he  happened  to  be  a  pope,  secular  power 
if  he  happened  to  be  a  duke  or  a  king.  But,  nowadays, 
suppose  you  had  a  patron — say,  Sir  Julius  Fleischmann 
— and  he  kept  you  alive,  what  on  earth  could  you  devote 
your  art  to?  You  could  paint  his  portrait,  and  his  wife's 
portrait,  and  all  his  daughters'  portraits,  but  they'd  mean 
nothing;  they'd  just  be  vulgar  men  and  women.  No. 
Art  is  a  bigger  thing  than  any  power  left  on  the  earth. 
Money  has  eaten  up  all  the  other  powers,  and  only  art 
is  left  uncorrupted  by  it.  Art  cannot  be  patronised. 
It  cannot  serve  religion,  because  there  is  no  religion  vital 
enough  to  contain  the  spirit  of  art.  There  is  nothing  left 
in  the  world  worthy  of  such  noble  service,  and  therefore 
art  must  be  independent  and  artists  must  be  free,  because 
there  is  no  honourable  service  open  to  them.  They  must 
have  their  own  values,  and  they  must  have  the  courage 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK  187 

of  them.  The  world's  values  are  the  values  fit  for  the 
service  of  Sir  Julius  Fleischmann,  but  they  are  not  fit 
for  men  whose  blood  is  stirring  with  life,  whose  minds 
are  eager  and  active,  men  who  will  accept  any  outward 
humiliation  rather  than  the  degradation  of  the  loss  of 
their  freedom." 

"I  met  Sir  Julius  Fleischmann  once,"  Mendel  said. 
"He  subscribed  for  me  when  I  went  to  my  first  School  of 
Art.  They  wanted  to  send  me  to  Italy,  but  I  refused, 
because  I  knew  my  place  was  here  in  London.  There's 
more  art  for  me  in  the  Tottenham  Court  Road  than  in  all 
the  blue  skies  in  the  world." 

"Quite  right,  too!"  cried  Logan.  "That  shows  how 
sound  an  artist's  instinct  is.  He  knows  what  is  good 
for  him  because  he  is  a  free  man.  The  others  have  to  be 
told  what  is  good  for  them  because  they  don't  know 
themselves  and  because,  however  unhappy  they  are,  they 
don't  know  the  way  out.  When  you  and  I  are  unhappy 
we  know  that  it  is  because  we  have  lost  touch  with  life, 
or  because  we  have  lost  touch  with  art;  either  the  flesh 
or  the  spirit  is  choked  with  thorns,  and  we  set  about 
plucking  them  out.  When  it  is  a  question  of  saving  your 
soul,  what  do  morals  matter?" 

Mendel  had  heard  people  talk  about  morals,  and  he 
knew  that  his  own  were  supposed  to  be  bad;  but  he 
was  not  certain  what  they  were.  Rather  timidly  he 
asked  Logan,  who  gave  his  fat  chuckle  and  replied  :— 

"Morals,  my  son?  No  one  knows.  They  change  about 
a  hundred  years  after  human  practice.  They  are  dif- 
ferent in  different  times,  places,  and  circumstances,  and 
Sir  Julius  Fleischmann,  like  you  and  me,  has  none,  be- 
cause he  can  afford  to  do  without  them.  .  .  .  Well,  I've 
done  a  good  day's  work  and  we've  had  a  good  dinner, 


188  MENDEL 


and  I  must  get  back  to  my  beautiful  bed — unless  you'd 
like  to  go  to  a  music-hall." 

Mendel  was  loath  to  let  his  friend  go,  and,  weary 
though  he  was,  he  said  he  would  like  the  music-hall. 
Logan  bought  more  cigars  and  they  walked  round  to  the 
Oxford  and  spent  the  evening  in  uneasy  and  flat  con- 
versation with  two  ladies  of  the  town,  one  of  whom  said 
she  knew  Logan,  though  he  swore  he  had  never  seen  her 
before.  When  they  were  shaken  off,  he  told  Mendel  mys- 
teriously that  she  was  a  friend  of  a  woman  of  whom 
he  went  in  terror,  who  had  been  pursuing  him  for  a 
couple  of  years. 

"Terrible!  Terrible!"  he  said.  "Like  a  wild  beast. 
They're  awful,  these  prostitutes,  when  they  fall  in  love. 
It  eats  them  up,  body  and  soul." 

And  he  went  on  talking  of  women,  and  from  what 
he  said  it  appeared  that  he  was  beset  by  them.  He  de- 
scribed them  lurking  in  the  street  for  him,  forcing  their 
way  into  the  studio,  clamouring  for  love,  love,  love. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  he  said.  "I  never  yet  met  a 
woman  who  knew  how  to  love.  If  a  man  has  an  enthu- 
siasm for  anything  outside  themselves,  they  plot  and 
scheme  with  their  damnable  cunning  to  kill  it.  They  want 
the  carcase  of  a  man,  not  the  lovely  life  in  it.  And  if 
they're  decent  they  want  babies,  which  is  almost  worse 
if  you're  hard  up.  No,  boy;  for  God's  sake  don't  take 
women  seriously.  If  you  can't  do  without  them,  hate 
'em.  They'll  lick  your  boots  for  it.  They  feed  on  hatred, 
and  will  take  it  out  of  your  hand." 

He  talked  in  this  strain  until  they  reached  the  Tube 
station  in  Piccadilly  Circus.  It  was  unusually  empty,  and 
by  the  booking-office  was  standing  a  very  pretty  girl,  big 
and  upstanding.  She  had  a  wide  mouth  and  curious 
slanting  eyes,  plump  cheeks  and  a  roguish  tilt  to  her  chin. 


LOGAN  SETS  TO  WORK 


She  was  well  and  neatly  dressed,  and  Mendel  judged 
her  to  be  a  shop-girl. 

"That's  a  fine  lass,"  said  Logan.  "Good-night,  boy. 
I'll  see  you  to-morrow  and  tell  you  about  Cluny's." 

"Good-night,"  said  Mendel,  still  loath  to  see  his  friend 
go,  and  he  suffered  a  pang  of  jealousy  as  he  saw  Logan 
go  up  to  the  girl,  raise  his  hat,  and  speak  to  her.  She 
started,  blushed,  and  smiled.  They  stopped  and  talked 
together  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  moved  over  to- 
wards the  lift. 

Mendel  waited  and  watched  them,  Logan  talking  gaily, 
the  girl  smiling  and  watching  him  intently  through  her 
smile.  With  her  eyes  she  took  possession  of  him,  and 
Mendel  was  filled  with  misgiving  when  he  heard  Logan's 
fat  chuckle  and  the  rustle  and  clatter  of  the  gate  as  the 
lift  descended.  It  reminded  him  oddly  of  the  Demon 
King  and  the  Fairy  Queen  in  a  pantomime  he  had  once 
seen  with  Artie  Beech,  whose  father  used  to  get  tickets 
for  the  gallery  because  he  had  play-bills  in  his  shop 
window. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BURNHAM    BEECHES 


FOR  Greta  Morrison  as  for  Mendel,  London  life  had 
been  opened  up  through  Mitchell.  He  had  been 
friendly  and  kind  to  her  when  everybody  else  had  been 
harsh,  fault-finding1,  and  indifferent.  Her  first  year  and 
a  half  at  the  hostel  had  been  a  period  of  misery,  for  the 
girls  and  women  there  regarded  her  as  odd,  vague,  and 
careless,  and  thought  it  their  duty  to  impose  on  her  the 
discipline  she  seemed  to  need,  for  they  knew  nothing  of 
her  suffering  through  her  ambition  and  her  work. 

Like  Mendel,  she  had  been  overwhelmed  by  her  inabil- 
ity to  adapt  herself  easily  to  the  Detmold  standard  of 
drawing,  for  it  was  against  her  temperament  and  her 
habit  of  mind  to  be  precise,  and  drawing  had  always 
been  to  her  rather  a  trivial  thing,  though  extremely  pleas- 
ant for  the  purposes  of  the  caricatures  in  which  her  teas- 
ing humour  found  an  outlet.  All  her  girlhood  had  been 
thrillingly  happy  in  the  execution  of  large  allegorical 
designs,  through  which  she  sought  to  express  her  delight 
in  the  earth — the  immense  serene  power  of  which  she  be- 
came profoundly  aware  as  she  lay  in  the  bracken  at 
home  and  gazed  out  over  the  rich  valley  or  up  into  the 
marvellous,  quivering  blue  sky,  through  which  she  felt 
that  she  was  being  borne  without  a  sound,  without  a 
tremor,  irresistibly.  Nothing  could  shake  that  loving 

190 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  191 

knowledge  in  her,  and  it  hurt  her  that  her  mother's  cold, 
self-centred  religion,  which  made  her  demand  a  fussy, 
sentimental  attention  from  her  children,  forbade  all  ex- 
pression of  it  in  her  daily  life.  Her  brothers,  revolting 
against  the  sentimentality  exacted  of  them,  treated  all 
tenderness  as  ignoble  rubbish,  and  in  her  rough-and-tum- 
ble with  them  Greta  was  hardened  and  forcd  into  inde- 
pendence. She  had  to  play  their  games  with  them  and 
to  suffer  the  same  tortures  of  knuckle-drill,  brush,  dry- 
shave,  and  wrist-screw.  But  all  their  swagger  seemed  to 
her  rather  fraudulent;  and  because  they  laughed  at  her 
allegorical  designs  she  decided  that  men  were  inferior 
beings.  When  they  laughed  at  her  designs  it  was  to  her 
as  though  they  laughed  at  the  beauty  she  had  tried  to  ex- 
press in  them,  and  the  sacrilege  enraged  her  more  than 
her  mother's  petulance,  for  they  were  young  and  strong 
and  full  of  life,  and  they  should  not  have  been  blind. 
It  was  against  them  that  she  first  found  relief  in  carica- 
ture, and  as  they  went  through  their  Public  Schools  and 
were  more  and  more  compressed  into  type,  she  pilloried 
them,  and,  as  a  consequence,  even  when  she  was  a  young 
woman,  big  and  fine,  with  the  tender,  delicate  bloom  of 
seventeen  upon  her,  she  had  to  submit  to  the  indignity 
of  knuckle-drill,  brush,  dry-shave,  and  wrist-screw. 

She  was  filled  with  a  horror  of  men,  and  especially 
Public  School  men,  for  they  seemed  to  her  entirely  lack- 
ing in  decency,  humility,  and  honesty.  They  pretended 
to  be  so  fine  and  ignored  everything  that  was  finer  than 
themselves.  Her  brothers'  foolish  love-affairs  disgusted 
her  and  made  her  suppress  in  herself  every  emotion  that 
tried  to  find  its  way  to  a  good-looking  boy  or  young  man. 
She  was  not  shy  of  them  or  afraid  of  them,  but  she^would 
not  encourage  in  them  what  she  so  detested  in  her 
brothers. 


192  MENDEL 


During  her  first  year  in  London  she  devoted  herself 
heart  and  soul  to  her  work.  There  were  two  or  three 
families  who  were  kind  to  her  as  her  mother's  daughter, 
but  their  ways  were  her  mother's,  and  she  only  visited 
them  as  a  duty,  and  to  break  the  monotony  of  the  school 
and  the  hostel. 

Her  encounter  with  Mitchell  took  place  at  the  time 
when  Mendel's  influence  on  him  had  set  him  in  revolt 
against  his  Public  School  training.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  sight  of  the  abyss  of  poverty  into  which  Mendel  de- 
scended so  easily  had  set  him  reeling.  He  was  shrewd 
enough  to  know  that  Hetty  Finch  was  using  him  as  a 
ladder  to  get  out  of  it,  and  that  there  was  a  real  danger 
of  her  kicking  him  down  into  it.  In  a  state  of  horrible 
confusion  he  plunged  at  the  most  obvious  outlet,  the 
"pure  girl"  of  the  tradition  of  his  upbringing. 

He  made  no  concealment  of  it,  but  turned  to  Morrison 
with  a  childlike  confidence  that  touched  her.  She  was 
feeling  lonely,  disappointed,  and  dissatisfied  with  herself 
and  was  glad  of  his  company.  It  was  a  change  from  the 
woman-ridden  atmosphere  of  the  hostel. 

By  way  of  making  their  relationship  seemly  he  intro- 
duced her  to  his  family,  where  as  the  pure  young  girl 
who  was  to  save  their  hope  from  wild  courses  she  was  a 
great  success. 

"First  sensible  thing  you've  done,  my  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Mitchell,  that  great  man,  a  journalist  who  had  been  a 
correspondent  in  a  dozen  wars.  "A  pure  friendship  be- 
tween a  boy  and  a  girl  has  a  most  ennobling  influence — 
most  ennobling." 

"She  is  truly  spiritual,"  sighed  Mrs.  Mitchell,  "the 
type  who  justifies  the  independence  of  the  modern  girl, 
whatever  the  Prime  Minister  may  say." 

"That  scoundrel!"  cried  Mr.  Mitchell.     "That  infa- 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  193 

mous  buffoon  who  has  not  a  grain  of  Liberalism  left  in 
his  toadying  mind!" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mitchell,  "we  were  talking  about 
little  Miss  Morrison." 

"Well,"  answered  Mr.  Mitchell,  "we  took  our  risk 
when  we  let  the  boy  be  an  artist  and  we  can  be  thankful 
it  is  no  worse.  Did  I  tell  you,  my  love,  that  I  am  go- 
ing off  to  the  Cocos  Islands  to-morrow?" 

"Indeed,  my  dear  ?  Then  you  will  not  be  able  to  come 
to  my  meeting." 

"No.     I  hear  it  is  worse  than  the  Congo." 

"Oh  dear!  oh  dear!  I  don't  know  what  the  world 
is  coming  to.  The  more  civilised  we  get  in  one  part  of 
the  world,  the  worse  things  are  in  another  part.  I  de- 
clare such  horrible  things  seem  to  me  to  make  it  quite 
unimportant  whether  we  get  the  vote  or  not." 

"When  you  have  a  Tory  Government  calling  itself 
Liberal,"  said  Mr.  Mitchell  very  angrily,  "it  means  that 
neither  reform  at  home  nor  justice  abroad  can  receive 
any  attention.  The  country  has  gone  to  the  dogs,  and  I 
thank  God  I  spend  most  of  my  time  out  of  it." 

"And  poor  Humphrey  suffers.  I'm  sure  I  am  a  good 
mother  to  him,  but  I  cannot  be  a  father  as  well.  I'm 
thankful  to  say  he  seems  to  be  dropping  that  Jewish 
friend  of  his.  He  is  a  genius,  of  course,  and  quite  re- 
markable, considering  what  he  comes  from;  but  with 
Jews  it  can  never  be  the  same,  can  it?" 

"No,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Mitchell;  "one  would  never 
dream  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  glass,  would  one? 
Still,  I  must  say,  the  Jews  in  England  are  much  better 
than  they  are  anywhere  else,  which  seems  to  show  that 
they  can  respond  to  decent  treatment  and  thrive  in  the 
air  of  liberty." 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  had  a  platform  manner  of 


194  MENDEL 


speaking,  and  as  Morrison  was  not  a  subject  that  suited 
it,  she  was  soon  dropped ;  but  in  the  end  they  came  back 
to  her,  and  agreed  that  she  was  a  nice,  shy  little  girl,  and 
that  she  had  no  idea  of  marrying  their  only  son,  or 
any  one  else,  for  that  matter. 

She  was  much  impressed  with  them,  for  she  had  never 
met  important  people  before,  and  she  was  given  to  un- 
derstand that  they  were  very  important.  They  seemed  to 
have  their  fingers  on  innumerable  reforms  which  were 
only  suppressed  by  the  stupidity  of  the  Government.  Di- 
rectly the  Government  was  removed,  as  of  course  such 
idiots  soon  would  be,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  would  raise 
their  fingers  and,  hey  presto!  women  would  have  votes, 
the  slums  would  be  pulled  down,  maternity  would  be 
endowed,  prostitutes  would  be  saved,  prisons  would  be 
reformed,  capital  punishment  abolished,  the  working 
classes  would  be  properly  housed,  every  able-bodied  man 
who  wished  it  should  have  his  small  holding,  the  railways 
would  be  nationalised,  site  values  would  be  taxed,  divorce 
would  be  made  easy  and  free  from  social  taint,  and  edu- 
cation would  be  made  scientific  and  thorough.  In  the 
meantime,  as  the  Government  did  not  budge,  Mr.  Mitchell 
went  to  the  Cocos  Islands  and  Constantinople  to  procure 
evidence  of  horrors  abroad  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  addressed 
meetings  on  the  subject  of  horrors  at  home. 

Morrison  was  impressed.  The  contrast  between  these 
people  who  thought  of  everything  and  everybody  but 
themselves  and  her  own  home,  where  nothing  was 
thought  of  but  the  family,  the  Church,  and  the  Em- 
pire, shocked  her  into  thinking  and  gave  her  a  sense  of 
liberation.  It  made  human  beings  more  interesting  than 
she  had  thought,  and  she  began  to  see  that  they  did  not, 
as  she  had  heedlessly  accepted  that  they  did,  fit  infallibly 
into  their  places,  and  that  vast  numbers  had  no  places  to 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  195 

fit  into.  She  herself,  she  saw,  did  not  fit  into  any  place, 
and  that  she  had  been  squeezed,  like  paint  out  of  a  tube, 
out  of  her  home  for  no  other  reason  than  that  she  was  a 
woman,  and  there  was  only  just  enough  money  to  estab- 
lish the  boys.  However,  she  could  not  quite  swallow 
Mrs.  Mitchell's  view  that  men  had  deliberately,  coldly, 
and  of  set  purpose  ousted  women  from  their  rightful 
share  in  the  sweets  of  life. 

She  had  a  period  of  despair  as  these  revelations  sank 
into  her  mind  and  she  had  to  digest  Mrs.  Mitchell's  awful 
facts  and  statistics  about  the  night-life  of  London.  Life 
seemed  too  terrible  for  her  powers,  but,  as  she  soon  be- 
gan to  see  how  comic  Mrs.  Mitchell  was,  she  pulled  her- 
self together  and  found  that  she  was  strengthened  by 
the  experience,  and  when  Mitchell  confessed  the  awful 
doings  of  his  past,  she  felt  immeasurably  older  than  he, 
and  was  thankful  she  was  a  woman  and  did  not  expect 
such  things  of  herself.  For  she  could  never  quite  take 
his  word  for  all  he  said.  She  knew  her  brothers  too 
well  to  accept  his  plea  of  passionate  necessity. 

"Gawd!"  he  used  to  say.  "When  I  think  of  my  past 
I  feel  that  I  must  go  on  my  knees  and  worship  your 
purity." 

His  absurdity  made  her  blush,  but  she  liked  him.  He 
was  clever  and  had  read  much  under  his  father's  guid- 
ance, poetry  and  modern  English  fiction  mostly,  and 
when  she  went  to  tea  with  him  in  his  studio  he  used 
to  read  aloud  to  her,  Keats  and  Shelley  and  Matthew  Ar- 
nold. 

"I  think  I  only  like  poetry,"  she  said  once,  "when 
it  makes  pictures.  When  it  doesn't  do  that  it  seems  to 
me  just  words,  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter  how  nice 
they  sound." 

"Gawd !"  he  said.    "That's  like  Kiihler.    He  says  noth- 


196  MENDEL 


ing  makes  such  pictures  as  the  Bible,  and  he  is  always 
quoting  that  about:  'At  her  feet  he  bowed,  he  fell,  he 
lay  down :  where  he  fell,  there  he  lay  down.'  And  he 
says  it  must  be  the  words,  because  his  own  Hebrew  Bible 
never  gave  him  anything  like  the  same — er — vision  of 
it." 

Once  he  had  begun  to  talk  of  Mendel  she  would  not  let 
him  leave  the  subject. 

"Do  you  think  he's  a  genius?"  she  would  ask. 

"Gawd!  I  don't  know.  He  says  he  is  a  genius,  and 
I  suppose  time  will  show  whether  it  is  true  or  not.  But 
why  do  you  want  to  talk  of  him?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  interested.  Perhaps  because  he 
is  different," 

"Well,  you've  had  tea  with  him.  That  is  about  as 
much  as  is  good  for  you.  If  you  were  my  sister  I 
wouldn't  let  you  know  him." 

"Why  not?" 

"My  dear  girl,  there  are  certain  things  in  life  that  a 
young  girl  ought  never  to  know." 

"What  things?  Is  there  anything  worse  than  what 
your  mother  talks  about  at  her  meetings?  Girls  know 
all  about  that  nowadays,  and  it  is  no  good  pretending 
we  don't." 

"Talking  about  them  is  one  thing,  coming  in  contact 
with  them  is  another.  Kiihler  is  a  Jew,  and  he  comes 
from  the  East  End,  where  they  don't  have  any  decent 
pleasures.  He's  infernally  good-looking  in  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  sort  of  way.  Gawd!  Women  look  at  him  and 
off  they  go." 

"But  he  cares  for  poetry  and  the  Bible  and  he  loves 
pictures.  .  .  ." 

"It  doesn't    seem  to  make  any  difference." 

During  this  talk  he  had  begun  to  find  Morrison  ex- 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  197 

traordinarily  pretty  and  lovable,  and  he  said  tenderly: — 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  hat  and  let  me  see  your  beau- 
tiful hair?" 

She  refused,  and  asked  him  more  about  Mendel,  and 
in  exasperation  at  the  unintended  snub  he  told  her  the 
true  story  of  Hetty  Finch,  not  concealing  his  own  share 
in  it,  but  implying  that  Mendel's  terrible  immorality  had 
corrupted  him  and  led  to  his  downfall. 

The  story  was  received  in  silence. 

At  last  she  said : — 

"And  what  is  going  to  become  of  Hetty  Finch?" 

"That's  the  extraordinary  part  of  it,"  said  Mitchell. 
"She  has  found  some  one  to  marry  her." 

He  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece  and  dropped  his 
head  in  his  hands  and  groaned. 

"Gawd!"  he  said.  "If  it  weren't  for  you  I  don't  know 
what  would  become  of  me."  And  he  was  so  moved  by 
his  own  thoughts  that  tears  trickled  down  his  nose  and 
made  dark  spots  on  the  whitened  hearth. 

"I  can't  ask  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said  mournfully. 
"I'm  unworthy,  but  I  want  to  be  your  friend." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  he  was  forced  to  ask  rather 
lamely : — 

"Will  you  be  my  friend?" 

"Of  course." 

"Always?" 

"How  can  I  promise  that?"  she  said. 

It  was  then  that  he  took  her  to  the  Paris  Cafe,  where, 
all  in  a  turmoil  through  her  new  knowledge  of  men  and 
women,  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing,  and  gave 
Mendel  the  curt  nod  which  had  so  disgruntled  him. 

Every  summer  the  Detmold  students  went  for  a  pic- 
nic, either  up  the  river,  or  to  a  Surrey  common,  or  to  one 


198  MENDEL 


of  the  forests  in  the  vicinity  of  London.  This  year 
Burnham  Beeches  was  chosen.  Two  charabancs  met  the 
party  at  Slough,  and  though  Mendel  tried  very  hard  to 
sit  next  to  Morrison,  he  was  outmanoeuvred  by  Mitchell, 
and  had  to  put  up  with  Clowes. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  glare  at  Mitchell  so.  You  make 
me  quite  uncomfortable,"  said  she. 

"He  is  telling  her  lies  about  me,"  growled  Mendel. 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  protested  Clowes.  "He  is  not  talk- 
ing about  you  at  all."  She  felt  rather  cross  with  him 
because  he  was  spoiling  her  pleasure,  and  because  she  had 
wanted  to  sit  next  to  some  one  else,  and  she  added : 
"People  aren't  always  talking  about  you,  and  if  anybody 
does  it's  the  models,  and  that's  your  own  fault." 

"How  beastly !"  he  said. 

"I  don't  blame  them.  They  haven't  any  other  in- 
terest." 

"I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  this  country.  It  is  so 
flat  and  dull,  regular  railway  scenery.  What  a  place  to 
choose  for  a  picnic!" 

"Wait  until  you  get  to  the  woods !  We're  going  to  a 
place  called  Egypt.  Don't  you  think  that's  romantic? 
Though  it  reminds  me  more  of  Oberon  and  Titania  than 
of  Anthony  and  Cleopatra." 

He  looked  blank,  and  she  explained: — 

"Shakespeare,  you  know." 

"I've  never  read  Shakespeare." 

"Oh!  you  should." 

"I've  tried,  but  I  can't  understand  him.  I  suppose  it's 
because  I'm  not  English.  It  seems  ridiculous  to  me,  all 
those  plots  and  murders." 

"But  the  fairies  in  the  'Midsummer  Night's  Dream' !" 

"I  haven't  read  it ;  but  what  do  you  want  with  fairies  ? 
A  wood's  a  wood,  and  there's  quite  enough  mystery  in 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  199 

it  for  me  without  pretending  to  see  things  that  aren't 
there." 

"But  it's  nice  to  pretend,"  said  Clowes  rather  lamely, 
almost  hating  him  because  he  seemed  so  wrong  in  the 
country.  She  knew  people  like  that,  people  she  was  quite 
fond  of  in  London,  but  in  the  country  they  were  awful. 

The  charabancs  swung  through  Farnham  Royal  and 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  woods,  brilliant  under  a  vivid 
blue  sky  patched  with  huge,  heavy  white  clouds.  Birds 
hovered  above  the  trees,  and  as  they  turned  out  of  the 
street  of  seaside  bungalows  and  along  the  sandy  lane 
leading  to  Egypt,  they  put  up  rabbits  and  pheasants. 

The  art  students  looked  bizarre  and  almost  theatrical 
in  the  woods,  with  the  long-haired  young  men  and  the 
short-haired  girls,  many  of  them  wearing  the  brightest 
colours.  Mendel  hated  the  lot  of  them,  giggling  girls 
and  bouncing  boys,  and  he  recognised  how  inappropriate 
they  all  were  and  how  he  himself  was  the  most  inappro- 
priate of  them  all.  He  felt  ashamed,  and  wanted  to  go 
away  and  hide,  to  crawl  away  to  some  hole  and  gaze  with 
his  eyes  at  the  beauty  he  could  not  feel.  There  were 
too  many  trees,  as  there  were  too  many  people.  .  .  . 
What  a  poor  thing  is  a  man  in  a  crowd  which  makes 
it  impossible  to  share  his  thoughts  and  emotions  with 
any  one !  And  how  bitter  it  is  when  he  is  full  of  thoughts 
and  emotions !  It  is  all  so  bitter  that  the  crowd  must  do 
foolish,  inappropriate  things  not  to  feel  it,  not  to  be 
broken  up  by  it.  ...  Yet  the  others  seemed  happy 
enough.  The  old  Professors  were  beaming  and  pretend- 
ing to  be  young.  Perhaps  they  enjoyed  it  more  than 
any  one  because  they  did  not  want  to  be  alone,  or  to 
steal  away  with  a  coveted  maid,  as  some  of  the  young 
men  were  doing  even  now.  .  .  .  Had  Mitchell  stolen 


200  MENDEL 


away  with  Morrison?  Horrible  idea!  No.  There  he 
was,  putting  up  stumps  for  cricket. 

Cricket !  How  Mendel  loathed  that  fatuous  game,  the 
kind  of  inappropriate  foolish  thing  the  crowd  always  did! 
How  he  dreaded  the  swift  hard  ball  that  would  hurt  his 
hand  or  his  shins!  How  humiliated  he  felt  when  he 
was  out :  and  how  he  raged  against  the  frantic  excitement 
he  could  not  help  feeling  when  he  hit  the  ball  and  made 
a  run.  One  run  seemed  to  him  a  larger  score  than  any 
one  else  could  possibly  make,  and  when  he  made  a  run 
and  was  on  the  winning  side  he  always  felt  that  he  had 
won  the  match.  In  the  field,  no  matter  where  he  was 
placed,  he  went  and  stood  by  the  umpire,  because  he  had 
noticed  that  the  ball  rarely  went  that  way. 

He  had  to  field  now,  and  he  went  and  stood  by  the 
umpire.  Mitchell  came  swaggering  in.  He  hit  a  lovely 
four,  a  three,  a  two.  The  fielders  changed  at  the  over, 
but  Mendel  stayed  where  he  was.  The  ball  came  near 
him.  He  picked  it  up  and  threw  it  as  hard  as  he  could  at 
Mitchell's  head.  Fortunately  he  missed,  and  there  was 
a  roar  of  laughter. 

"I  say,  I  mean  to  say,"  said  one  of  the  Professors, 
"we  are  not  playing  rounders  or — or  baseball." 

And  there  was  more  laughter. 

Mitchell  hit  a  three,  a  two,  a  lost  ball  (six),  a  four, 
and  then  he  skied  one.  The  ball  went  soaring  up.  With 
his  keen  sight  Mendel  could  see  it  clearly  shining  red 
against  the  hot  sky.  With  an  awful  sinking  in  his  stom- 
ach he  realised  that  it  was  coming  down  near  him.  It 
was  coming  straight  to  him.  It  would  fall  on  him,  hurt 
him,  stun  him.  Then  he  thought  that  if  he  caught  it 
Mitchell  would  be  out.  He  never  lost  sight  of  the  ball 
for  a  moment.  If  he  caught  it  Mitchell  would  be  out. 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  201 

He  moved  back  two  paces,  opened  his  hands,  and  the  ball 
fell  into  them. 

"Oh !  well  caught,  indeed !    Well  caught !" 

Mitchell  walked  away  from  the  wicket  swinging  his 
bat  in  a  deprecating  fashion.  After  all,  one  does  not 
expect  miracles  even  in  cricket. 

"Beautiful,  beautiful  ball!"  thought  Mendel,  fondling 
it  with  his  still  tingling  hands.  "You  came  to  me  like 
a  lark  to  its  nest,  and  you  shone  so  red  against  the  sky, 
you  shone  so  red,  so  red!" 

His  dissatisfaction  vanished.  The  crowd  was  a  nice 
beast  after  all.  It  was  at  his  feet.  At  no  one  else  had 
it  shouted  like  that.  .  .  .  The  woods  were  very  beautiful, 
with  the  bracken  nodding  under  the  trees,  and  the 
branches  swaying,  and  the  soft  winds  murmuring  through 
the  leaves,  through  which  the  trees  seemed  to  breathe 
and  sigh  and  to  envy  the  moving  wind  while  they  were 
condemned  to  stay  and  grow  old  in  one  spot.  Very, 
very  sweet  were  the  green  and  yellow  and  blue  lights  hov- 
ering and  swinging  through  the  woods,  dappling  the 
trunks  of  the  trees,  weaving  an  ever-changing  pattern  on 
the  carpet  of  moss  and  dead  leaves,  and  the  tufted 
bracken  that  sometimes  almost  looked  like  the  sea,  full 
of  a  life  of  its  own.  Surely,  surely  there  were  fish 
swimming  in  the  bracken. 

Starting  out  of  his  dreams,  he  saw  Morrison  at  the 
wicket,  very  intent,  with  a  stern  expression  on  her  face. 
He  knew  she  was  desperately  anxious  to  score. 

She  was  most  palpably  stumped  with  her  second  ball, 
but  the  umpire  gave  her  "not  out,"  amid  general  ap- 
plause, for  she  was  a  favourite. 

She  lashed  out  awkwardly  at  the  next  ball,  which  came 
on  the  leg  side.  It  came  towards  Mendel  at  an  incredible 
speed.  He  put  his  foot  on  it,  picked  it  up,  pretended  it 


202  MENDEL 


had  passed  him,  and  tore  towards  the  trees  in  simulated 
pursuit;  and  he  remained  looking  for  it  in  the  bracken 
while  Morrison  ran  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  and  just 
as  some  one  cried  "Lost  ball !"  he  stooped,  pretended  to 
pick  it  up,  and  threw  it  back  to  the  bowler. 

He  himself  was  bowled  first  ball,  but,  as  it  turned  out, 
Morrison's  side  won  by  three  runs. 

She  was  bubbling  over  with  happiness,  and  after  tea 
she  came  over  to  him  and  said : — 

"I  say,  Kiihler,  that  was  a  good  catch." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  cocked  his  chin  and  looked 
down  his  nose  as  he  said  : — 

"Oh  lyes.    I  can  play  cricket." 

"You  made  a  blob,"  she  said  with  a  grin. 

"A  catch  like  that,"  he  answered,  "is  enough  for  one 
day.  I  have  seen  many  words  written  in  the  papers 
about  a  catch  like  that.  Even  Calthrop  does  not  have 
so  many  words  written  about  his  pictures." 

"I  shall  hate  to  go  back  to  London  after  this,"  she 
said.  "I  didn't  know  there  was  anything  so  beautiful 
near  London." 

"There  is  Hampstead,"  he  said. 

"I've  never  been  there,"  she  replied. 

"Will  you  let  me  take  you  to  Hampstead  ?  It  has  lilies 
and  water." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Do  let  us  go  into  the 
woods  now  before  we  start.  I'm  sure  there  must  be 
lovely  places." 

He  followed  her,  first  looking  round  to  see  what  had 
become  of  Mitchell,  whom  he  saw  standing  with  a  scowl 
on  his  face,  a  foolish  figure. 

"Don't  talk!"  said  Morrison.  "I'm  sure  it  is  lovely 
through  here." 

She  led  the  way  through  a  grove  of  pines  into  a 


BURNHAM  BEECHES  203 

beech  glade,  at  the  end  of  which  they  found  a  dingle, 
where  they  stood  and  gazed  back. 

"Oh,  look!"  she  cried.  "Look  at  the  pine  stems 
through  the  sea-green  of  the  beeches.  Purple  they  are, 
and  don't  they  swing?" 

"I  like  the  wind  in  the  trees,"  said  Mendel. 

He  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  he 
caught  some  of  her  ecstasy.  But  he  could  not  under- 
stand it  at  all  and  it  hurt  him  horribly.  She  was  won- 
derful and  beautiful  to  him,  the  very  heart  of  all  that 
loveliness,  the  song  of  it,  its  music  and  its  mystery. 

"She  is  only  a  little  girl,"  he  said  to  himself  very 
clearly,  stamping  out  the  words  in  his  mind  so  that  it 
was  as  though  some  one  else  had  spoken  to  him. 

The  ecstasy  grew  in  her,  and  with  it  the  pain  in  him. 
She  swayed  towards  him  and  fell  against  his  breast  and 
raised  her  lips  to  him.  He  stooped  and  almost  in  terror 
just  touched  them  with  his. 

He  was  a  sorry  prince  for  a  sleeping  beauty,  for  he 
was  afraid  lest  she  should  awake. 


CHAPTER  V 


HAPPY    HAMPSTEAD 


ON  the  morning  of  the  day  fixed  for  their  expedi- 
tion to  Hampstead  Heath  she  sent  him  roses — yel- 
low roses.  He  took  them  across  to  his  mother  and  gave 
them  to  her,  saying : — ' 

"I  do  not  need  flowers.     I  am  happy." 

Golda  laughed  at  him,  and  said : — 

"You  are  a  big  little  man  since  you  made  the  catch 
at  the  cricket." 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  am  happy.  It  is  no 
longer  surprising  to  me  that  there  are  happy  people  in 
the  world,  and  I  think  the  Christians  are  not  all  sucK 
fools  to  wish  to  be  happy.  I  am  only  astonished  that 
they  are  happy  with  such  little  things." 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Golda.  "They  are  not  truly 
happy;  they  are  only  hiding  away  from  themselves." 

"But  I  am  finding  myself,"  cried  Mendel.  "I  shall 
no  more  paint  fishes  and  onions.  I  shall  paint  only  what 
I  feel,  and  it  will  be  beautiful.  I  am  so  clever  I  can 
paint  anything  I  choose." 

"Go  to  your  work  now,"  said  Golda.  "You  can  boast 
as  much  as  you  please  when  the  King  has  sent  for  you 
and  told  you  you  are  the  greatest  artist  in  England. 
Go  to  your  work." 

He  went  back  to  his  studio  and  there  found  a  letter 

204 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD 


205 


from  Logan,  giving  his  new  address  in  Camden  Town, 
and  another  from  Mitchell,  asking  him  why  he  was  so 
unfriendly.  This  he  answered  at  once: — 

"You  are  no  longer  my  friend.  You  have  despised 
and  injured  me.  Superior  as  I  am  to  you,  you  have 
thought  it  your  part  as  a  gentleman  to  try  to  keep  me 
in  my  place.  You  have  treated  me  as  a  kind  of  animal. 
You  cannot  see  that  as  an  artist  I  am  the  equal  of  all 
men,  the  highest  and  the  lowest.  My  own  poor  people 
I  do  not  expect  to  know  this,  but  of  an  educated  man  I 
do  expect  it.  You  cannot  see  this,  and  I  count  you  lower 
than  the  lowest,  and  as  such  I  am  prepared  to  know  you, 
and  not  otherwise.  I  have  changed  completely.  I  no 
longer  believe  in  the  Detmold  or  in  Calthrop  or  in  any 
of  the  things  I  reverenced  as  a  student.  I  prefer  the 
Academy,  for  it  does  not  pretend  to  be  advanced,  and 
is  honest  though  asleep.  I  am  no  longer  a  student.  I 
am  an  artist.  You  will  always  be  an  art  student,  and 
so  I  say  good-bye  to  you,  as  one  says  good-bye  to  friends 
on  a  station-platform.  The  train  moves  and  all  their 
affectionate  memories  and  longings  cannot  stop  it.  The 
train  moves  and  I  am  in  it,  and  I  say  good-bye  to  you 
without  even  looking  out  of  the  window." 

This  done,  he  sat  down  to  work  at  a  portrait  of  his 
father  and  mother,  with  which  he  was  designing  to  eclipse 
his  first  exhibiting  success.  It  seemed  to  him  important 
that  it  should  be  finished.  Hearing  Issy  come  in,  he 
shouted  to  him  to  come  and  sit -instead  of  his  father, 
who  had  given  out  that  he  was  unwell  and  was  indulging 
in  a  sleeping  bout. 

Issy  came  shambling  in,  pale,  tired,  and  unhappy.  He 
sat  as  he  was  told,  and  said: — 

"I  wish  Harry  would  come  back ;  the  business  is  being 
too  much  for  me." 


206  MENDEL 


"Oh!  I  shall  soon  be  rich  and  then  I'll  help  you." 

"There's  not  much  help  for  me,"  said  Issy.  "I'm  like 
father.  There's  always  something  against  me  to  keep 
me  down.  It  seems  funny  to  me  that  people  will  give 
you  so  much  money  for  something  they  don't  really 
want." 

"Come  and  look  at  it,"  said  Mendel. 

Issy  obeyed. 

"I  don't  think  it's  really  like  them.  Why  should  any- 
body buy  them  who  doesn't  know  them?" 

He  spoke  so  heavily  and  dully  that  Mendel  found  it 
hard  to  conceal  his  irritation.  When  Issy  had  gone  back 
to  his  chair,  he  asked: — 

"What  do  you  live  for,  Issy?" 

"Live?"  said  Issy,  mystified. 

"Yes.    What  do  you  like  best  in  the  world?" 

"Playing  cards.  Playing  cards.  Every  day  there's 
work  and  every  night  there's  Rosa,  and  on  Saturday 
I  play  cards.  Yes.  I  play  cards;  and,  of  course,  you 
are  always  something  to  think  about." 

"What  do  you  think  about  me?" 

"Oh!  You  will  be  rich  and  famous,  and  you  will 
be  able  to  choose  among  all  the  girls  with  money.  It 
is  like  having  a  play  always  going  on  in  the  family.  But 
I  would  rather  play  cards,  and  Rosa  is  not  so  bad  as 
you  all  say  she  is.  I  am  not  a  good  husband  to  her, 
for  I  have  moods  and  I  cannot  talk  to  her,  for  I  cannot 
talk  to  any  one.  What  is  there  to  say?  She  has  her 
children,  and  she  only  wants  more  because  she  is  a  fool. 
It  is  not  her  fault." 

"That'll  do,  Issy.  I've  got  all  I  want.  I  can't  get 
any  more  from  you.  Some  day  I'll  teach  you  how  to 
be  happy." 

"Oh!"  said  Issy,  with  a  sly  leer.     "I  know  how  to 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD 


207 


be  happy.  I  can't  see  why  any  one  should  want  to 
have  father  and  mother  hanging  on  their  walls." 

He  slunk  away. 

How  depressing  he  was!  Poor  old  Issy!  as  much  a 
part  of  the  street  as  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 
houses.  He  might  move  a  hundred  yards  to  another  ex- 
actly similar  street,  but  he  would  always  be  the  same. 
It  was  not  his  fault.  Mendel  knew  the  depths  of  de- 
votion of  which  his  brother  was  capable.  It  was  de- 
votion to  his  mother  that  kept  him  living  round  the 
corner,  devotion  to  his  father  that  tied  him  to  the  un- 
profitable business.  The  name  of  Kiihler  had  attained 
the  dignity  of  a  brass-plate  on  the  front  door,  and  he 
would  die  rather  than  see  it  removed,  at  any  rate  in  his 
father's  lifetime. 

For  the  first  time  Mendel  faced  his  circumstances 
squarely.  With  something  of  a  shock  he  thought  of  the 
family  arriving  at  Liverpool  Street  and  never  in  all 
these  years  moving  more  than  half  a  mile  away  from  it, 
and  that  in  this  amazing  London,  with  its  trains  and 
buses  to  take  you  from  end  to  end  of  it  in  a  little  over 
an  hour.  His  mother  had  never  been  west  of  the  Bank. 
She  did  not  even  know  where  Piccadilly  Circus  was,  or 
the  Detmold,  or  the  National  Gallery,  or  the  Paris  Cafe, 
or  Calthrop's  studio,  or  any  other  important  centre  of 
life.  Liverpool  Street  she  knew,  and  outside  Liverpool 
Street  were  the  sea  and  Austria.  .  .  .  When  there  were 
no  little  happenings  at  home  she  would  always  fall  back 
on  Austria  and  the  troubled  days  at  the  inn,  and  the  sol- 
diers who  used  to  come  in  and  ask  to  see  the  beautiful 
baby  before  they  thought  of  ordering  drinks,  and  her 
rich  uncle  who  used  to  supply  the  barracks  with  potatoes 
and  was  so  mean  that  he  refused  to  give  her  any  when 
she  had  not  a  penny  in  the  world,  and  the  neighbours 


208  MENDEL 


who  used  to  bring  food  so  that  the  beautiful  baby  should 
not  starve.  .  .  .  They  stayed  where  they  were,  stormily 
passionate,  yet  with  no  sense  of  confinement,  while  he 
was  drawn  off  into  the  swiftly  moving  whirligig  of  Lon- 
don, going  from  house  to  house,  studio  to  studio,  cafe 
to  cafe,  atmosphere  to  atmosphere,  and  all  his  passionate 
storms  were  spent  upon  nothing,  were  absorbed  in  the 
general  movement,  leaving  him,  tottering  and  dazed,  in 
it,  yet  alien  to  it,  discovering  no  soul  in  it  all  and  losing 
the  clear  knowledge  of  his  own. 

Surely  now  that  was  ended.  She  had  sent  him  the 
yellow  roses,  and  he  had  given  them  to  his  mother  to 
join  the  two  whom  he  loved.  They  must  have  touched 
her  face  before  they  came  to  him,  and  Golda  had  buried 
her  face  in  them. 

Impatiently  he  awaited  the  time  for  him  to  go  to 
the  Detmold.  He  put  on  a  clean  collar  and  a  black 
coat,  but  then  he  remembered  how  the  old  Jews  whom 
he  asked  to  sit  for  him  always  put  on  clean  clothes 
and  clipped  their  beards,  under  the  impression  that  he 
wanted  to  photograph  them.  In  his  clean  collar  and 
black  coat  he  felt  as  though  he  were  going  to  the  pho- 
tographer's or  to  a  wedding,  and  remembering  how  he 
had  been  dressed  when  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time  on 
the  stairs,  he  took  out  an  old  black  shirt,  a  corduroy 
coat  and  trousers,  and  a  red  sash. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  wear  the  red  sash.  It 
reminded  him  of  Mitchell,  who  had  been  with  him  when 
he  bought  it. 

It  had  been  very  hot.  The  walls  and  the  pavements 
gave  out  a  dry,  stifling  heat.  The  smell  of  the  street 
outside  came  up  in  waves — a  smell  of  women  and  babies, 
leather  and  kosher  meat.  He  must  wait  for  the  cool 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD  209 

weather,  he  thought,  before  he  asked  her  to  the  studio 
again. 

"She  is  only  a  little  girl,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She 
is  pretty,  but  she  is  only  a  little  girl.  I  will  tell  her 
that  she  must  not  see  Mitchell  again,  because  he  is  not 
true.  I  will  paint  her  portrait,  and  then  I  will  not  see 
her  again,  because  she  is  only  a  little  girl." 

He  sat  in  the  window  with  the  clock  in  front  of  him, 
and  directly  it  said  half -past  four  he  clapped  his  hat 
on  his  head,  seized  the  silver-knobbed  stick  which  at 
that  time  was  an  indispensable  part  of  an  artist's  apparel, 
and  bolted  as  though  he  were  late  for  a  train. 

She  was  waiting  for  him.  He  took  off  his  hat,  but 
in  his  nervousness  he  could  not  speak,  and  as  he  could 
not  remember  which  side  of  a  lady  he  ought  to  walk, 
he  bewildered  her  by  dodging  from  one  side  to  the 
other  with  a  quick,  catlike  tread,  so  that  she  did  not 
hear  him,  and  whenever  she  turned  to  speak  to  him  he 
was  not  there. 

"Wasn't  it  a  good  picnic!"  she  said  enthusiastically. 
"It's  the  best  picnic  I've  ever  been  to." 

"They  are  usually  pretty  good,"  he  said  lamely.  "I 
think  we'd  better  go  by  bus." 

They  mounted  a  bus  and  sat  silently  side  by  side. 

When  they  stopped  by  the  Cobden  statue  he  said  :- 

"A  friend  of  mine  has  just  taken  a  studio  in  Camden 
Town.  His  name  is  Logan." 

"Was  he  at  the  Detmold?" 

"No." 

That  settled  Logan  for  her.    She  began  to  feel  anxiou 
Was  the  afternoon  going  to  be  a  failure  ?    Why  could  she 
never,  never  get  the  better  of  her  shyness?    She  wanted 
to  make  him  happy  because,  on  the  whole,  people  had 


210  MENDEL 


been  beastly  to  him  and  said  such  horrid  things  about 
him.  She  wanted  him  to  feel  for  himself,  and  not  only 
through  her,  that  the  world  was  a  very  wonderful  place, 
a  place  in  which  to  be  happy.  He  was  so  stiff  and  dif- 
ferent, so  taut  and  tightly  strung  up,  that  lounging,  loose- 
limbed  Mitchell  seemed  graceful  compared  with  him. 
Yet  there  was  something  unforgettable  about  him,  and 
he  had  always  had  for  her  the  vivid  romantic  reality 
of  the  beautiful  young  men  on  the  stage,  who  were 
creatures  of  a  delicious,  absurd  world  which  she  would 
never  enter  and  never  wished  to  enter:  a  world  where 
young  men  opened  their  arms  and  young  women  sank 
into  them  and  were  provided  with  happiness  for  ever 
and  ever.  Her  vigour  rejected  this  world,  for  she  knew 
and  lived  in  a  better,  but  all  the  same  it  had  its  charm 
and  its  curious  reality.  .  .  . 

She  was  not  shy  because  she  had  kissed  him.  That 
had  passed  with  the  shifting  light  through  the  trees 
and  the  clouds  in  the  sky.  It  had  been  vivid  and  true 
for  that  moment,  but  it  had  perished  and  fallen  away 
like  a  drop  of  water,  like  a  rainbow. 

He  remembered  it.  As  he  sat  by  her  side  and  could 
feel  the  warm  life  in  her,  it  became  terribly  actual  to 
him,  the  cool  contact  of  her  lips,  and  he  was  glad  when 
the  bus  reached  the  yard  with  the  painted  swing-boats 
and  he  need  no  longer  sit  by  her  side.  He  had  begun 
to  feel  subservient  to  her,  and  he  would  not  have  that. 
What  Rosa  was  to  Issy,  what  Gplda  was  to  his  father, 
that  should  a  woman  be  to  him,  for  it  was  good  and 
decent  so.  ...  He  was  almost  sorry  he  had  come.  He 
was  painfully  shy,  and  knew  that  she  was  suffering 
under  it. 

He  walked  so  fast  that  she  was  hard  put  to  keep  up 
with  him,  but  she  swung  out  and  would  not  be  beaten, 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD  211 

and  managed  his  pace  without  losing  her  breath.  Over  to 
the  wooded  side  of  the  Heath  he  took  her,  and  stopped 
under  a  chestnut-tree. 

"Shall  we  sit  down?"  he  said.  "Or  would  you  like 
to  go  on  walking?" 

"I'd  like  to  sit  down,"  she  answered.  "I  love  walk- 
ing, but  I  can't  talk  at  the  same  time." 

He  sat  down  at  once,  without  waiting  for  her  to  choose 
a  spot. 

"This  grass  is  nice  and  cool,"  he  said. 

It  was  wet,  but  he  had  no  thought  for  her  thin  cotton 
frock. 

She  sat  a  couple  of  yards  away  from  him  on  the  short 
turf  and  plunged  her  arm  into  the  long,  cool  grass. 
Then  she  lay  on  her  stomach  and  plucked  a  blade  of 
grass  and  chewed  it. 

"Thank  you  for  sending  me  the  roses.  I  gave  them 
to  my  mother." 

"I  liked  your  mother." 

"She  liked  you.  She  said:  That  is  a  good  girl.'  She 
is  very  quick  at  guessing  what  people  are  like." 

"I'm  glad  she  liked  me." 

Once  again  conversation  died  away,  but  she  seemed 
content  to  lie  there  with  her  arms  in  the  cool  grass. 
Their  round  slenderness  fascinated  him.  Her  short 
hair  hung  over  her  face,  so  that  he  could  only  see  the 
tip  of  her  chin. 

Suddenly  he  asked  her: — 

"Do  you  send  flowers  to  Mitchell?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  her  head  was  lowered  so  that 
the  tip  of  her  chin  was  hidden  by  her  hair. 

He  said  nothing,  but  he  too  lay  on  the  grass,  flat  on 
his  stomach,  with  his  head  on  his  arms.  His  heart  began 
to  thump,  and,  though  he  tried  to  control  it,  it  would 


212  MENDEL 


not  be  still.  Without  raising  his  head  he  said,  in  a 
choking  voice  that  astonished  him : — 

"My  father  fainted  for  love  of  my  mother.  When 
he  heard  her  name  he  fainted  away." 

She  said  nothing,  only  in  the  long  grass  her  fingers 
were  still.  Her  white  hands  in  the  grass  fascinated  him, 
held  his  eyes  transfixed,  the  green  blades  coming  up 
through  the  white  fingers  that  were  so  still.  He  stared 
at  them  as  though  they  were  some  strange  flower,  and 
for  him  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  at  all.  He  drew 
himself  near  to  them,  never  taking  his  eyes  off  them — ' 
white  and  green,  white  and  green  and  pink  at  the  finger- 
tips. He  must  touch  them.  They  were  cool,  soft,  and 
firm,  soft  as  the  petals  of  a  rose. 

He  grasped  them  like  a  child  seizing  a  pretty  toy,  but 
when  they  were  in  his  grasp  he  was  no  longer  like  a 
child.  A  single  impulse  thrilled  through  all  his  body 
and  made  it  strong  even  as  a  giant.  With  one  easy  swing 
of  his  arm  he  pulled  her  to  him,  held -her  with  a  vast 
tenderness,  and  held  her  so,  gazing  into  her  face.  Her 
lips  parted,  and  he  kissed  them.  .  .  . 

It  was  she  who  first  found  words: — 

"Oh  Mendel!     I  do  love  you." 

He  was  amazed  at  his  own  strength,  at  his  own  tender- 
ness. ...  So  that  was  a  kiss!  And  this,  this,  this  was 
love!  It  was  incredible!  How  sweet  and  easy  were  his 
emotions.  He  was  as  free  and  light  as  the  wind  in  the 
leaves. 

She  had  slipped  from  his  arms,  but  she  was  sing- 
ing through  all  his  veins,  she  and  no  other,  she  and 
nothing  else  in  the  world.  And  he  was  in  her,  per- 
fectly, beautifully  aware  of  her  body  and  of  the  ecstasy 
in  it,  of  the  tree  above  them,  of  the  dove-coloured  clouds, 
of  the  cool  green  grass,  of  the  yellow  earth  crumbling 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD  213 

out  of  the  mound  yonder,  and  of  the  ecstasy  in  them  all. 

So  for  many  moments  they  lay  in  silence,  until  as  sud- 
denly as  it  had  come  his  strength  left  him,  and  he  broke 
into  a  passionate  babble  of  words: — 

"You  must  not  send  flowers  to  Mitchell,  because  he 
cannot  love  you  and  I  can.  He  knows  nothing,  and  I 
know  a  great  deal.  I  know  women  and  the  ways  of 
women,  for  many  have  loved  me,  but  I  have  loved  none 
but  you.  No  woman  has  been  my  friend  except  my 
mother.  I  did  not  look  for  any  woman  to  be  like  my 
mother.  I  am  not  an  Englishman  who  can  love  with 
pretty  words.  I  love,  and  it  is  like  that  tree,  growing 
silently  until  it  dies.  It  has  stolen  on  me  as  softly  as 
the  night,  and  I  sink  into  it  as  I  sink  into  the  night,  to 
sleep.  It  is  as  though  the  dark  night  were  suddenly  filled 
with  stars  and  all  the  stars  had  become  flowers  and 
poured  their  honey  into  my  thoughts.  When  your  white 
hands  were  in  the  grass  they  were  like  flowers  and  they 
seemed  to  belong  to  me,  as  all  beautiful  things  belong 
to  me  because  I  can  love  them." 

She  came  nearer  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his, 
and  she  said : — 

"I  am  very,  very  happy." 

And  she  laughed  and  added: — 

"I  was  glad  when  you  made  that  catch." 

He  was  beyond  laughter.  For  him  laughter  was  for 
trivial  things.  She  had  stopped  the  flow  of  his  thoughts, 
the  rush  of  his  emotions  up  into  his  creative  conscious- 
ness. Wave  upon  wave  of  passion  surged  through  him, 
racked  him,  tortured  him,  tossing  his  soul  this  way  and 
that,  threatening  to  hurl  it  down  and  smash  it  on  the 
hardness  of  his  nature.  He  set  his  teeth  and  would  not 
wince.  If  she  could  laugh  she  could  know  nothing  of 
that.  She  was  shallow,  she  was  young.  .  .  .  Was  it 


214  MENDEL 


because  he  was  a  Jew  that  he  seemed  so  old  compared 
with  her?  .  .  .  What  was  it  she  lacked  that  she  could 
laugh  and  leave  him  to  the  torment  she  had  provoked  ? 

But  she  was  aware  of  the  curious  blankness  that  had 
come  over  his  end  of  their  twilight  silence,  and  she  suf- 
fered from  it,  thinking :  "Am  I  an  awful  woman?  Can 
I  give  nothing?"  And  she  turned  to  him  to  give,  and 
give  all  the  rare  treasures  of  her  soul,  of  her  heart,  to 
lay  them  before  him  for  his  delight.  But  what  she  had 
already  given  had  let  loose  a  storm  in  him  that  blotted 
out  all  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  all  the  loveliness  of  their 
love,  the  gift  and  the  taking  of  it,  and  left  him  with 
only  the  dim  light  of  her  purity. 

Soon  the  storm  passed  and  they  had  nothing  but  an 
easy  delight  in  each  other's  company,  each  turning  to 
each  as  to  a  warm  fire  by  which  to  laugh  and  talk  and 
make  merry. 

He  told  her  stories  of  his  childhood,  of  his  brothers 
and  his  father,  and  Mr.  Kuit,  the  thief,  who  had  bought 
him  his  first  suit;  of  his  childish  joy  in  painting,  and 
there  he  stopped  short.  Of  his  misery  he  was  unable 
to  speak. 

"You  do  believe  in  yourself,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?"  he  replied;  "I  am  a  man.  When  I  hold 
my  hands  before  my  eyes  they  are  real.  They  are  flesh 
and  blood.  I  must  believe  in  them.  And  I  am  all  flesh 
and  blood.  I  must  believe." 

"And  everything  else  is  real  to  you." 

"Everything  that  I  love  is  real.  And  what  I  do  not 
love  I  hate,  so  that  is  real  too." 

They  wandered  about  the  Heath  until  night  came  and 
the  stars  shone,  and  then  they  plunged  into  the  glitter  of 
London,  where  all  people  and  things  were  deliciously  fan- 
tastic and  comic,  flat  and  kinematographic,  as  though, 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD  215 

if  you  walked  round  to  the  other  side,  you  would  dis- 
cover that  they  were  painted  on  one  side  only.  It  gave 
them  the  glorious  illusion  of  being  the  only  two  living 
people  in  the  world,  for  they  and  only  they  had  loved 
since  the  world  began,  and  all  the  other  lovers  were 
only  people  in  a  story,  living  happily  ever  after  or  com- 
ing to  an  end  of  their  love,  neither  of  which  could  happen 
to  them  because  they  were,  always  had  been,  and  always 
would  be  in  love. 

They  dined  at  the  Pot-au-Feu,  where  they  encountered 
Mitchell,  who  had  the  effrontery  to  come  and  speak  to 
them.  He  was  very  friendly  and  spoke  as  though  noth- 
ing had  happened.  They  told  him  they  had  been  to 
Hampstead  and  recommended  him  to  try  it  when  he 
found  London  too  stuffy. 

When  he  had  gone  away,  Morrison  said: — 

"I  am  going  away  soon." 

"Going  away?     But  you  mustn't  go  away." 

"I  have  to  go  next  week.  My  mother  has  fits  of 
anxiety  about  my  being  in  London  every  now  and  then, 
and  she  drags  me  off  home.  She  has  got  one  of  them 
now.  She  can't  see  that  if  any  harm  were  going  to 
happen  to  me  it  would  have  happened  during  my  first 
year,  when  I  didn't  know  anything  and  was  very  lonely. 
I  don't  think  I'm  very  real  to  her,  somehow." 

She  gave  a  little  shiver  of  distaste  at  the  thought  of 
going  home. 

"But  you  mustn't  go  away,"  said  Mendel.  "I  want 
you,  always." 

"And  I  want  to  be  with  you,  but  if  I  refused  to  go 
home  now,  I  should  have  to  go  for  always,  for  I  should 
have  no  money." 

He  was  plunged  into  a  dejected  silence,  and  with 
hardly  a  word  more  he  took  her  home. 


216  MENDEL 


They  had  a  whole  week  of  this  warm  happiness.  He 
abandoned  every  other  thought,  every  other  pursuit, 
every  other  friend.  He  put  aside  his  work  to  paint  her 
portrait,  and  she  came  every  day  to  his  studio.  At  night 
he  hardly  slept  at  all  for  his  longing  for  the  next  day 
to  come  and  bring  her  to  his  studio,  that  now  seemed 
immense,  airy,  ample  even  for  such  a  giant  as  he  felt. 
.  .  .  He  adored  her  even  when  she  laughed,  even  when 
she  teased  him.  He  even  learned  occasionally  to  laugh 
at  himself.  It  was  worth  it  to  see  the  amazing  happi- 
ness he  gave  her. 

One  morning  as  he  was  painting  her,  he  said : — 

"I  can't  believe  you  are  going  away." 

"It  is  true,  more's  the  pity." 

"But  you  are  not  going,  for  I  will  marry  you." 

He  said  this  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone  as  he  went  on 
with  his  painting.  The  picture  was  coming  on  well  and 
he  was  pleased  with  it.  He  stepped  back  and  looked 
at  it  from  different  angles.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before 
she  made  the  expected  matter-of-fact  reply,  and  he 
looked  up  at  her.  She  was  hanging  her  head  and  pluck- 
ing at  her  skirt  nervously.  She  heard  him  stop  in  his 
work,  and  she  replied: — 

"I  don't  .  .  .  think  ...  I  want  to  marry  you,  Men- 
del. I  don't  .  .  .  think  ...  I  want  to  marry  any- 
body." 

"I'm  making  plenty  of  money  and  I  can  get  com- 
missions for  portraits.  I  could  make  it  up  with  Birn- 
baum.  We  could  go  to  Italy  together." 

"Don't  make  it  harder  for  both  of  us,  Mendel.  .  .  . 
I  don't  want  ...  to  marry." 

"You  will  go  back  home,  then?" 

"Please  .  .  .  please  .  .  ."  she  implored  him. 

A  fury  began  to  rise  in  him.     He  stamped  his  foot 


HAPPY  HAMPSTEAD  217 

on  the  ground  and  struck  his  brush  across  the  picture. 
He  made  a  tremendous  effort  to  recover  himself,  but 
before  he  could  say  another  word  she  had  slipped  through 
the  door  and  was  gone.  He  darted  after  her,  and  reached 
the  front-door  just  in  time  to  see  her  running  as  hard  as 
she  could  down  the  street  and  round  the  corner. 

Just  as  he  was,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  hatless  and  col- 
larless,  he  went  in  to  see  his  mother.  He  was  white-hot 
with  rage,  and  he  walked  up  to  her  and  looked  her  up 
and  down  as  though  he  were  trying  to  persuade  himself 
that  she  was  to  blame. 

"What  do  you  think  the  news  is  now?" 

Golda  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  and  looked  at  him 
fearfully  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"I've  been  refused,"  he  said,  "refused  by  the  Christian 
girl." 

"Refused !"  cried  Golda,  who  had  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing  as  a  girl  refusing  to  marry  a  rich  young  man. 

"Yes.     I  proposed  to  her  and  she  refused." 

"The  Christians  are  all  alike,"  said  Golda.  "They 
keep  themselves  to  themselves,  and  you  must  do  the 
same." 

She  took  a  smoked  herring  from  the  cupboard  and 
cut  it  into  portions. 

"And  when  your  time  for  marrying  comes  you  must 
look  among  the  Jews,  for  the  Jews  are  good  people.  No 
Jewish  girl  would  serve  you  a  trick  like  that.  Jewish 
girls  know  that  they  must  marry  and  they  are  good. 
But  she  is  young,  and  you  are  young,  and  you  will  both 
forget." 


CHAPTER   VI 

CAMDEN   TOWN 


FROM  the  magnificent  studio  in  Hammersmith  to  two 
rooms  in  Camden  Town  Mr.  James  Logan  removed 
his  worldly  goods,  a  paint-box,  half-a-dozen  canvases, 
two  pairs  of  trousers,  three  shirts,  a  "Life  of  Napoleon" 
in  two  volumes,  and  a  number  of  photographs  of  famous 
pictures.  The  magnificent  studio  had  been  lent  to  him 
by  the  mistress  of  its  owner,  who  had  returned  unex- 
pectedly from  abroad,  and  Mr.  James  Logan's  departure 
from  it  was  hurried,  but  unperturbed. 

"In  my  time,"  he  said,  "I  have  kept  Fortune  busy, 
but  her  tricks  leave  me  unmoved.  She  will  get  tired 
of  it  some  day  and  leave  me  alone." 

All  the  same  he  did  not  relish  the  change.  He  was 
nearly  thirty  and  had  tasted  sufficient  comfort  to  relish 
it  and  to  prize  it.  Also  he  could  not  forget  the  ambitions 
with  which  he  had  come  to  London  five  years  before.  In 
the  North  he  had  won  success  by  storm,  and  he  could 
not  understand  any  other  tactics.  He  was  an  extraordi- 
nary man  and  expected  immediate  recognition  of  the 
fact.  Upon  his  own  mind  his  personality  had  so 
powerful  an  effect  that  he  was  blind  to  the  fact  that  it 
did  not  have  a  similar  effect  upon  the  minds  of  others. 
Women  and  young  men  he  could  always  stir  into  admira- 

218 


CAMDEN  TOWN  219 


tion,  but  men  older  than  himself  were  only  affronted. 
He  knew  it  and  used  to  curse  them: — 

"These  clods,  these  hods,  these  glue-faced  ticks  have 
no  more  sap  in  them  than  a  withered  tree.  They  hate 
me  as  a  mule  hates  a  stallion,  and  for  the  same  reason. 
May  God  and  Mary  have  mercy  on  what  little  is  left 
of  their  souls  by  the  time  they  come  to  judgment!" 

He  cursed  them  now  as  he  laid  his  trousers  on  the 
vast  new  double-bed  he  had  bought  and  went  into  his 
front  room  to  arrange  his  easel  and  canvas  for  work. 
Whatever  happened  to  him  he  would  go  on  painting, 
because  he  saw  himself  like  that,  standing  as  firm  as 
a  rock  before  his  easel,  painting,  while  the  world,  for 
all  he  cared,  went  to  rack  and  ruin.  What  else  could 
happen  to  a  world  that  refused  to  recognise  its  artists? 

Painting  was  truly  a  joy  to  him.  He  loved  the  actual 
dabbling  with  the  colours,  laying  them  out  on  his  palette, 
mixing  them,  evolving  rare  shades;  he  loved  the  fiery 
concentration  and  absorption  in  the  making  of  a  pic- 
ture; the  renewed  power  of  sight  when  he  turned  from 
a  picture  to  the  world ;  the  glorious  nervous  energy  that 
came  thrilling  through  his  fingers  in  moments  of  concen- 
tration; the  feeling  of  the  superiority  of  this  power  to 
all  others  in  the  world.  And  so,  whatever  happened,  he 
turned  to  his  easel  and  painted.  Love,  debt,  passion, 
quarrels,  all  the  disturbances  of  life  came  and  went,  but 
painting  remained,  inexhaustible.  So  he  had  been  happy, 
free,  unfettered,  gay,  avoiding  all  responsibility  because 
it  was  his  formula  that  the  artist's  only  responsibility 
is  to  his  art. 

He  was  doubly  happy  now  because  he  knew  he  had 
made  an  impression  on  a  young  man  whose  sincerity 
and  vigour  of  purpose  he  could  not  but  respect.  He  was 
himself  singularly  impressionable,  and  like  a  sponge  for 


220  MENDEL 


sucking  up  the  colour  of  any  strong  personality.  And 
Mendel  had  the  further  attraction  for  him  that  he  was 
pure  London,  of  the  shifting,  motley  London  that  Logan, 
as  a  provincial,  adored.  This  London  he  had  touched  at 
many  points,  but  never  through  a  strong  living  soul 
that  had,  and  most  loyally  acknowledged,  London  as  its 
home. 

Logan's  visit  to  Mendel  in  the  East  End  had  been  one 
of  the  great  events  of  his  life.  Through  it  he  had  found 
his  feet  where  he  had  been  floundering,  though,  of  course, 
happily  and  excitedly  enough. 

He  told  himself  that  now  he  was  going  to  settle  down 
to  work,  to  the  great  productive  period  of  his  life,  such 
as  was  vouchsafed  to  every  real  artist  who  was  tough 
enough  to  pay  for  it  in  suffering.  He  would  rescue 
Mendel's  genius  from  the  Detmold  and  the  ossified  ad- 
vanced painters,  and  together  they  would  smash  the 
English  habit  of  following  French  art  a  generation  late, 
and  they  would  lay  the  foundations  of  a  genuine  Eng- 
lish art,  a  metropolitan  art,  an  art  that  grew  naturally 
out  of  the  life  of  the  central  city  of  the  world. 

Logan  always  worked  by  programme,  but  hitherto  he 
had  changed  his  programme  once  a  week.  Now  he  was 
sure  that  this  was  the  programme  of  his  life.  It  would 
be  amended,  of  course,  by  inspiration,  but  its  groundwork 
was  permanent.  He  was  enthusiastic  over  it.  .  .  .Of 
course,  this  was  what  he  had  always  been  seeking,  and 
hitherto  he  had  been  fighting  the  London  which  absorbed 
the  talents  of  the  country,  masticated  them,  digested 
them,  and  evacuated  them  in  the  shape  of  successful 
painters  for  whom  neither  life  nor  art  had  any  meaning, 
or  in  the  shape  of  vicious  wrecks  who  crawled  from  pub- 
lic-house to  public-house  and  died  in  hospitals. 

It  was  time  that  was  stopped.     It  was  time  for  Lon- 


CAMDEN  TOWN  221 


don  to  be  made  to  recognise  that  it  had  a  soul,  and 
this  generation  must  begin  the  task,  for  never  before 
had  a  generation  been  so  faced  with  the  blank  impossi- 
bility of  accepting  the  work,  thought,  and  faith  of  its 
predecessor.  Never  had  it  been  so  easy  to  slip  out  of 
the  stream  of  tradition,  for  never  had  tradition  so  com- 
pletely disappeared  underground. 

'  'He  that  hath  eyes  to  see,  let  him  see,'  "  quoth  Logan, 
and  he  hurled  himself  into  his  work,  dancing  to  and  fro, 
squaring  his  shoulders  at  it  as  though  the  picture  were 
an  adversary  in  a  boxing-match. 

At  half-past  four  he  laid  down  his  brushes  and  be- 
gan to  arrange  the  room,  pinning  photographs  on  the 
walls,  and  unpacking  certain  articles  of  furniture,  as  a 
rug,  a  great  chair,  and  mattresses  to  make  a  divan,  which 
he  had  bought  that  morning.  Every  now  and  then  he 
ran  to  the  window,  threw  up  the  sash,  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  street. 

At  last  with  a  tremor  of  excitement  he  leaned  out 
and  waved  his  hand,  shut  the  window,  and  ran  down- 
stairs. In  a  moment  or  two  he  returned  with  the  girl  of 
the  Tube  station.  She  was  wearing  the  same  clothes, 
with  the  addition  of  a  cheap  fur  boa,  and  she  panted  a 
little  from  the  run  upstairs  with  him. 

"I'm  glad  you  came,"  he  said.  "I  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't." 

"Oh !  It's  not  far  from  where  I  live,"  she  said.  "But 
you  are  in  a  mess." 

"I've  only  just  got  in.  I  would  have  asked  you  to  my 
old  place,  but  I  had  to  leave." 

"So  you're  a  nartist,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you  were 
something  funny." 

"Funny!"    snorted    Logan.      "I    call   a    shop-walker 


222  MENDEL 


funny;  or  a  banker,  for  that  matter,  or  a  millionaire. 
An  artist  is  the  most  natural  thing  to  be  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  Take  your  hat  and  gloves  off  and  give  me  a  hand, 
and  then  we'll  have  tea." 

"Oh!  I  love  my  tea." 

"I  know  all  about  tea.  I  get  it  from  a  friend  of  mine 
in  the  City.  I  know  how  to  make  it,  too." 

They  worked  together,  arranging,  dusting,  keeping  de- 
liberately apart  and  eyeing  each  other  surreptitiously.  He 
liked  her  slow,  heavy,  indolent  movements,  and  she  exag- 
gerated them  for  him.  She  liked  his  quick,  firm,  decisive 
actions,  and  he  accentuated  them  for  her;  and  she  liked 
his  thick,  black  hair  and  his  strong  hands. 

He  picked  up  the  great  chair  and  held  it  at  arm's  length. 

"Oo!    You  are  strong,"  she  said. 

"I  could  hold  you  up  like  that." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  try,"  and  she  gave  a  little  giggle 
of  protest. 

"I  will  if  I  don't  like  you,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  let  you 
drop  and  break  your  leg." 

She  went  off  into  peals  of  laughter,  and  he  laughed 
too. 

"It's  such  a  jolly  day,"  he  said.  "It  only  needed  you 
to  come  to  make  everything  perfect." 

"What  made  you  speak  to  me  the  other  night?"  she 
asked. 

"I  liked  the  look  of  you." 

"But  I'm  not  that  sort,  you  know." 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  being  that  sort.  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you,  and  that  was  enough  for  me.  Sit  down 
and  have  some  tea." 

The  kettle  was  boiling,  and  he  had  already  warmed 
the  pot.  He  measured  out  the  tea  carefully,  poured  the 
water  onto  it,  and  gave  her  a  blue  china  cup.  He  pro- 


CAMDEN  TOWN  223 


duced  an  old  biscuit-tin  containing  some  French  pastry, 
and  then  sat  on  the  floor  while  she  consumed  the  lot. 

It  gave  him  great  pleasure  to  see  her  eat,  and  he  liked 
her  healthy,  childish  greed.  She  had  the  face  of  a  spoiled 
child,  a  very  soft  skin,  and  plump,  yielding  flesh.  He 
liked  that.  It  soothed  and  comforted  him  to  look  at  her. 
while  at  the  same  time  he  was  irritated  by  her  inward 
plumpness  and  easiness. 

"You've  always  had  a  good  time,"  he  said. 

"Oh  yes !    I've  seen  to  that." 

"You're  not  a  London  girl." 

"No;  Yorkshire." 

"I'm  from  Lancashire." 

"Eeh!  lad,"  she  said,  her  whole  voice  altering  and 
deepening  into  an  astonishingly  full  note,  "are  ye  fra' 
Lancashire  ?  Eeh !  a'm  fair  clemmed  wi'  London.  Eeh ! 
I  am  glad  ye  coom  fra'  Lancashire." 

"What  are  you  doing  in  London?" 

"I'm  working  in  Oxford  Street,  though  not  one  of 
the  big  shops." 

"Like  it?" 

"M'm!     Well  enough." 

"Of  course  you  don't,  handing  out  laces  and  ri1> 
bons " 

"  'Tisn't  laces  and  ribbons.     It's  corsets." 

"Corsets,  then,  to  women  who  haven't  a  tenth  of  your 
looks  or  your  vitality." 

"It  can't  be  helped  if  they  have  the  money  and  I 
haven't,  can  it?" 

"Money  doesn't  matter.  What's  money  to  you,  with 
all  the  rich  life  in  you?  Money  cannot  buy  that,  nor 
can  it  buy  what  will  satisfy  you." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"Love  and  freedom." 


224  MENDEL 


"Ooh!  you  are  a  talker." 

"I'm  not  flirting  with  you.  I  haven't  got  time  for 
that." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  foot,  which  was  covered  with 
a  thin  cotton  stocking.  She  did  not  move  it. 

"You  needn't  stare  at  me  like  that,"  she  said,  with 
a  curious  thickness  in  her  voice. 

"I  can't  help  staring,"  ,he  answered,  "when  I  mean 
what  I  say."  He  pressed  his  lips  together  and  scowled, 
and  shook  her  foot  playfully.  There  was  an  exhilarating 
pleasure  in  startling  and  mastering  her  by  directness. 
It  was  like  peeling  the  bark  off  a  stick.  The  thin  layers 
of  affectation  came  off  easily  and  cleanly,  leaving  bare 
the  white  sappy  smoothness  of  her  innocent  sensuality. 

"I  do  mean  what  I  say,"  he  added.  "Why  should 
we  beat  about  the  bush  ?  I  asked  you  to  come  to-day  be- 
cause I  wanted  you.  You  came  because  you  knew  I 
wanted  you." 

"You  asked  me  to  tea." 

"All  right.  And  you'll  stay  to  dinner.  People  have 
made  love  to  you  before." 

"Well,  no  ...  yes.  ...  Not  like  .  .  ." 

"Don't  tell  lies,"  he  said.  "You  saw  me  at  the  sta- 
tion long  before  I  saw  you,  and  you  wanted  me  to  see 
you.  That  was  why  you  stayed  at  the  booking-office." 

"You  were  with  such  a  pretty  boy,"  she  said. 

"Boy!  You're  not  old  enough  to  care  for  pretty 
boys." 

"But  he  was  pretty." 

"Be  quiet !"  he  said,  kneeling  by  her  side.  "You  may 
want  me  to  take  weeks  over  making  all  sorts  of  foolish 
advances  to  you,  but  I'm  not  going  to  waste  time.  I've 
wasted  too  much  time  over  that  sort  of  rubbish.  We 


CAMDEN  TOWN  225 


both  know  what  we  want  and  you  are  going  to  stay 
with  me." 

"No." 

"I  say  yes." 

"No."  And  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  walked  to  the 
door.  There  she  turned.  He  had  picked  up  her  gloves. 

"Will  you  give  me  my  gloves,  please  ?" 

"No." 

"Will  you  give  me  my  gloves?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  shall  go  without  them." 

"Very  well.     Good-bye." 

"If  I  stay,  will  you  promise  not  to  talk  like  that?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  stay  under  those  circumstances." 

"You're  an  insulting  beast." 

"Not  at  all.  I  honour  your  womanhood  by  not  pre- 
tending that  it  isn't  there." 

"Will  you  give  me  my  gloves?" 

She  ran  across  and  tried  to  snatch  them  out  of  his 
hand.  He  gripped  and  held  her,  and  she  gave  a  wild 
laugh  as  he  kissed  her. 

She  clung  to  him  as  he  let  her  sink  back  into  the  great 
chair.  She  lay  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  lips  parted 
while  he  sat  and  poured  himself  out  another  cup  of 
tea.  His  hand  was  shaking  so  that  he  spilled  some  tea 
on  his  new  rug. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  sa;d.  "I'll  give  you  a  week  to 
get  used  to  me,  and  if  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  don't 
like  me,  you  can  go." 

"I  haven't  any  friends,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "and 
you  get  sick  of  girls  and  the  shop.  You  get  sick  of  go- 
ing out  in  the  evening  up  and  down  the  streets  and  into 
the  cinemas,  and  rinding  some  damn  fool  to  take  you  to 
a  music-hall.  Such  a  lot  of  people  and  nobody  to  know.  ' 


226  MENDEL 


"There's  a  lot  of  fun  in  living  with  an  artist,"  he  said. 
"You  meet  queer  people  and  amusing  women,  and  you 
wouldn't  find  me  dull  to  live  with." 

"I  felt  queer  as  I  came  near  the  house,"  she  said,  "as 
though  I  knew  something  was  going  to  happen.  I  feel 
very  queer  now." 

"That's  love,"  said  Logan  grimly.  "Love  isn't  what 
you  thought  it  was." 

"You  must  let  me  go  now." 

"When  will  you  come  again  ?" 

"Never." 

"Oh  yes,  you  will." 

"Stop  it!"  she  cried.  "Stop  it!  I'm  not  going  to  be 
flummoxed  by  the  like  of  you." 

"But  you  are,"  he  said.     "You  poor  darling!" 

He  took  her  hand  and  stroked  it  tenderly. 

"Don't  you  see  that  you  are  flummoxed  by  something 
that  is  stronger  than  both  of  us?  I'm  shaken  by  it, 
and  I'm  whipcord.  We're  poor  starving  people,  God  help 
us !  and  we  can  save  each  other.  We  knew  we  could  do 
it  at  once,  when  we  met.  ...  If  I  said  all  the  pretty 
things  in  the  world  it  wouldn't  help.  We're  too  far  gone 
for  that.  When  you're  starving  you  don't  want  choco- 
lates. .  .  .  I'm  only  saying  what  I  know.  It  is  true  of 
myself.  If  I  have  made  a  mistake  about  you,  I  am  sorry. 
You  can  go.  .  .  .  Have  I  made  a  mistake?" 

For  answer  she  turned  towards  him,  gazed  at  him  with 
glazing  eyes,  raised  her  arms,  and  drew  him  into  them. 

A  week  later  Nelly  Oliver  dined  with  Logan  and  Men- 
del at  the  Pot-au-Feu.  They  had  a  special  dinner  and 
drank  champagne,  for  it  was  what  Logan  called  the 
"nuptial  feast." 

Oliver,  as  they  called  her,  was  flushed  with  excitement, 


CAMDEN  TOWN  227 

and  kept  on  telling  Mendel  that  he  was  the  prettiest  boy 
she  had  ever  seen.  She  called  Logan  "Pip" — "Pip 
darling/'  "Pip  dearest,"  "Pipkin"  and  "Pipsy"— because 
she  said  he  was  like  an  orange-pip,  bitter  and  hard  in  the 
midst  of  sweetness. 

"Pip  says  you're  a  genius,"  she  said  to  Mendel.  "What 
does  he  mean  ?" 

Mendel  disliked  her,  though  he  tried  hard  to  persuade 
himself  that  she  was  charming.  He  was  baffled  by  the 
solemnity  with  which  Logan  was  taking  her,  for  she 
seemed  to  him  the  type  made  for  occasional  solace  and 
not  for  companionship.  Exploring  her  with  his  mind 
and  instinct,  she  seemed  to  him  soft  and  pulpy,  not  unlike 
an  orange,  and  if  she  and  Logan  were  to  set  up  a  com- 
mon life,  then  he  would  be  like  a  pip  indeed.  .  .  .  How 
could  he  explain  to  her  the  nature  of  genius?  Can  you 
explain  the  night  to  an  insect  that  lives  but  an  hour  in 
the  morning? 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  brusquely. 

Logan  was  dimly  aware  that  his  friend  and  his  girl 
were  not  pleasing  each  other,  and  he  set  himself  to  keep 
them  amused.  He  succeeded  fairly  well,  but  his  humour 
was  forced,  for  he  was  under  the  spell  of  the  girl  and 
the  thought  of  the  adventure  to  which  she  had  consented. 
She  knew  it,  and  was  loud  and  shrill  and  triumphant, 
continually  setting  Mendel's  teeth  on  edge,  for  the  purity 
of  his  instinct  was  disgusted  by  the  blurring  and  swamp- 
ing of  life  by  any  emotion,  and  the  quality  of  hers  was 
not  such  as  to  win  indulgence. 

"Logan  will  tell  you  what  genius  is,"  he  said. 

"She'll  find  that  out  soon  enough  if  she  lives  with  me," 
growled  Logan  a  little  pompously. 

Oliver  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  looked  languish- 
ingly  at  Mendel  as  she  drawled : — 


228  MENDEL 


"It's  a  pity  you  haven't  got  a  nice  girl.  Then  there 
would  be  four  of  us." 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  snapped  Logan.  "What  does  he 
want  with  girls  at  his  age?" 

Oliver's  lips  trembled  and  she  pouted  in  protest. 

"I  only  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  round  off  the  party. 
When  you're  in  love  you  can't  help  wanting  everybody 
else  to  have  some  too." 

Mendel  was  torn  between  dislike  of  her  and  admira- 
tion of  Logan's  masterful  handling  of  the  problem  of 
desire.  .  .  .  No  nonsense  about  getting  married  or  fall- 
ing in  love.  He  saw  the  woman  he  wanted  and  took 
her  and  made  her  his  property,  and  the  woman  could 
not  but  acquiesce,  as  Oliver  had  done.  In  a  dozen  differ- 
ent ways  she  acknowledged  Logan's  lordship,  even  in 
her  deliberate  efforts  to  exasperate  him.  Their  relation- 
ship seemed  to  Mendel  simple  and  .excellent,  and  he  en- 
vied them.  How  easy  his  life  would  become  if  he  could 
do  the  same!  What  freedom  there  would  be  in  having 
a  woman  to  throw  in  her  lot  with  his!  It  would  settle 
all  his  difficulties,  absolve  him  from  his  dependence  on 
his  family,  and  deliver  him  from  the  attentions  of  un- 
worthy women. 

"How  shall  we  dress  her?"  asked  Logan. 

Mendel  took  out  his  sketch-book  and  drew  a  rough 
portrait  of  Oliver  in  a  gown  tight-fitting  above  the  waist 
and  full  in  the  skirt. 

"I  should  look  a  guy  in  that,"  she  said.  "It's  nothing 
like  the  fashion." 

^You've  done  with  fashion,"  said  Logan.  "You've 
done  with  the  world  of  shops  and  snobs  and  bored,  idiotic 
women.  You're  above  all  that  now.  In  the  first  place 
there  won't  be  any  money  for  fashion,  and  in  the  second 
place  there's  no  room  in  our  kind  of  life  for  rubbish. 


CAMDEN  TOWN  229 


You're  a  free  woman  now,  and  don't  you  forget  it,  or 
I'll  knock  your  head  off." 

"But  it's  a  horrible,  ugly  dress,"  said  Oliver,  almost  in 
tears. 

"It's  what  you're  going  to  wear.  I'll  buy  the  stuff 
to-morrow  and  make  it  myself.  What  colour  would  you 
like?" 

"I  won't  wear  it." 

"Then  you  can  go  back  to  your  shop." 

"You  know  I  can't.    I've  said  good-bye  to  all  the  girls." 

"Then  you'll  wear  the  dress." 

"I  shan't" 

"For  God's  sake  don't  quarrel,"  said  Mendel.  "One 
would  think  you  had  been  married  for  ten  years.  Let 
her  wear  what  she  likes  until  she  wants  some  new 
clothes." 

"Highty  Tighty !  Little  Boy !"  sang  Oliver.  "You  talk 
as  though  I  were  a  little  girl." 

"You  behave  like  one,"  snapped  Mendel,  and  her  face 
was  overcast  with  a  cloud  of  malignant  sulkiness. 

They  went  on  to  a  music-hall,  where  Logan  and  she 
sat  with  their  arms  locked  and  their  shoulders  pressed 
together,  whispering  and  babbling  to  each  other. 

Mendel  sat  bolt  upright  with  his  arms  folded  staring 
at  the  stage  but  seeing  nothing,  so  lost  was  he  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  strange  turn  of  affairs  by  which  the 
adventure  which  had  promised  to  lead  him  straight  to 
art  had  deposited  him  in  a  muddy  little  pool  of  life. 
He  would  not  submit  to  it.  He  would  not  surrender  Lo- 
gan and  all  the  hopes  he  had  aroused.  Prepared  as  he 
had  been  to  follow  Logan  through  fire,  he  would  not 
shrink  when  the  way  led  through  the  morass.  Friendship 
was  to  him  no  fair-weather  luxury,  and  nothing  but  false- 


230  MENDEL 


hood  or  faithlessness  in  his  friend  could  make  him  re- 
linquish it. 

He  told  himself  that  Logan  would  soon  tire  of  it,  that 
Oliver  would  go  the  way  of  her  kind.  She  was,  after 
all,  better  than  Hetty  Finch,  since  she  had  a  capacity  for 
childish  enjoyment. 

She  revelled  in  the  sentimental  ditties  and  the  sugges- 
tive humours  of  the  comedians,  pressed  closer  and  closer 
to  Logan,  and  grew  elated  and  strangely  exalted  as  the 
evening  wore  on.  And  as  they  left  the  music-hall  she 
gripped  Mendel's  arm  and  brought  her  face  close  to  his 
and  whispered: — 

"Do  wish  me  luck,  Kiihler.    Give  me  a  kiss  for  luck." 

He  kissed  her  and  mumbled :    "Good  luck !" 

"Come  and  see  us  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "We  shall  be 
all  right  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  come  along!"  cried  Logan,  dragging  her  away; 
and  Mendel  stood  in  the  glaring  light  of  the  portico 
and  watched  them  as,  arm  in  arm,  they  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  crowd  hurrying  and  jostling  its  way  home  to 
the  dark  outer  regions  of  London. 

He  had  an  appalling  sense  of  being  left  out  of  it. 
Everything  passed  and  he  remained.  He  lived  in  a  circle 
of  light  into  which,  like  moths,  came  timid,  blinking,  lov- 
able figures,  and  he  loved  them;  but  they  passed  on  and 
were  lost  in  the  tumultuous,  heaving  darkness  of  life, 
into  which  alone  he  could  not  enter.  .  .  .  Did  he  desire  to 
enter  it?  He  did  not  know,  but  he  was  hungry  for 
something  that  lay  in  it,  or,  perhaps,  beyond  it 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.    TILNEY  TYSOE 


LOGAN  with  Oliver  was  more  startling  and  exhila- 
rating than  before.    He  was  filled  with  a  ferocious 
energy,  and  his  programme  was  distended  with  it. 

He  said  to  Mendel : — 

"She's  an  inspiration.  I  have  found  what  I  was  seek- 
ing. You  have  given  me  the  inspiration  of  art.  Through 
you  I  shall  reach  the  heights  of  the  spirit.  She  has  given 
me  the  inspiration  of  life,  and  through  her  I  shall  plumb 
the  very  depths  of  humanity.  She  is  marvellous.  All  the 
exasperation  of  modern  life  is  in  her,  all  the  impatient 
brooding  on  the  threshold  of  new  marvels.  You  think 
she  is  stupid,  I  know,  but  that  is  only  because  she  has 
in  herself  such  an  immense  wealth  of  instinctive  knowl- 
edge of  life  that  she  does  not  need  to  judge  it  by  pass- 
ing outward  appearances.  I  am  amazed  at  her,  almost 
afraid  of  her.  Something  tremendous  will  come  out  of 
her.  ...  By  God!  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  all 
the  dabbling  in  paint  that  goes  on,  not  to  speak  of  all  the 
dabbling  in  love.  Love  ?  The  word  has  become  foolish 
and  empty.  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it  uttered  ever  again. 
...  I  swear  that  if  it  doesn't  come  out  in  paint  I  shall 
write  poetry.  Oh !  I  can  feel  the  marrow  in  my  bones 
again,  and  my  veins  are  full  of  sap.  .  .  .  But  I  want 
to  talk  business." 

231 


232  MENDEL 


"Business?"  said  Mendel,  who  had  been  upset  and  be- 
wildered by  this  outburst. 

"Yes.  I  want  you  to  approve  my  programme,  for  you 
must  have  a  programme.  It  is  all  very  well  to  work  by 
the  light  of  inspiration.  That  can  work  quite  well  as 
far  as  you  yourself  are  concerned,  but  what  about  the 
public?  What  about  the  other  artists? — damn  them! 
We're  going  to  burst  out  of  the  groove,  but  we 
must  have  a  good  reason  for  doing  so." 

"Surely  it  is  reason  enough  that  one  can't  work  in 
it." 

"Not  enough  for  them.  They  must  be  mystified  and 
impressed.  They  must  be  unable  to  place  us.  They  must 
feel  that  we  are  up  to  something,  but  they  must  be  unable 
to  say  what  it  is." 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  said  Mendel. 

"But  you  must  care.  When  we  have  carried  out  the 
programme,  then  you  can  do  as  you  like,  but  till  then 
we  must  pull  together.  We  must  do  it  for  the  sake  of 
art.  We  must  make  a  stand,  not  to  found  a  school  or 
to  say  that  this  and  no  other  style  of  drawing  is  right,  but 
to  assert  the  sacred  duty  of  the  artist  to  paint  accord- 
ing to  his  vision  and  his  creative  instinct." 

This  was  coming  very  near  to  Mendel's  own  feeling, 
and  he  remembered  the  torture  he  had  been  through 
to  learn  the  Detmold  style  of  drawing,  and  how  some 
virtue  had  gone  out  of  his  work  in  the  effort. 

"It  is  the  artist's  business,"  said  Logan,  "to  create 
out  of  the  life  around  him  an  expression  of  it  in  form." 

"I  agree,"  said  Mendel. 

"Accurate  imitation  is  not  necessarily  an  expression, 
is  it?  You  know  it  isn't.  A  picture  must  be  a  created 
thing.  It  must  have  a  life  of  its  own,  and  to  have  that 
it  must  grow  through  the  artist's  passion  out  of  the  life 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE 


233 


around  him.  It  is  all  rubbish  to  look  back,  to  talk  of  go- 
ing back  to  the  Primitives  or  the  Byzantines  or  Egypt. 
You  can  learn  a  great  deal  from  those  old  people  about 
pictures,  but  you  cannot  learn  how  to  paint  your  own  pic- 
tures from  them,  because  you  can  only  live  in  your  own 
life  and  your  own  time,  and  if  you  are  a  good  artist 
your  work  will  transcend  both.  .  .  .  Now,  tell  me, 
where  is  the  work  that  is  expressing  the  glorious,  many- 
coloured  life  of  London,  where  is  the  work  that  does 
not  give  you  a  shock  as  you  come  to  it  out  of  the  street, 
the  thrilling,  vibrant  street,  making  you  feel  that  you 
are  stepping  back  ten,  twenty,  fifty  years  ?  .  .  .  Why  has 
life  outstripped  art?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mendel,  whose  head  had  begun 
to  ache. 

"It  has  not  only  outstripped  it,"  continued  Logan. 
"It  has  begun  to  despise  it." 

The  postman  knocked,  and  Mendel  ran  downstairs  in 
feverish  expectation  of  a  letter  from  Morrison,  to  whom 
he  had  written  imploring  her  to  come  again,  or,  if  not, 
at  least  to  let  him  have  her  address  in  the  country.  There 
was  no  letter  for  him,  and  as  soon  as  he  returned  with 
a  blank,  disappointed  face,  Logan  went  on : — 

"People  collect  pictures  as  they  collect  postage-stamps, 
to  keep  themselves  from  being  bored.  Naturally  they 
despise  pictures,  and  they  despise  us  for  accepting  those 
conditions.  They  are  intolerable,  and  we  must  make  an 
end  of  them.  We  are  in  a  tight  corner,  and  we  should 
leave  no  trick  and  twist  and  turn  untried  to  get  out  of  it. 
If  we  do  not  do  so  then  there  will  be  no  art,  as  there  is  no 
drama,  no  music,  and  no  literature,  and  there  will  be  no 
authority  among  men,  and  humanity  will  go  to  hell.  ^  It 
is  on  the  road  to  it,  and  the  artists  have  got  to  stop  it." 

Mendel  had  not  heard  a  word.    He  sat  with  his  head 


234  MENDEL 


in  his  hands  thinking  of  Morrison,  and  hating  her  for  the 
blank  misery  in  which  she  had  plunged  him. 

"Humanity,"  said  Logan  cheerfully,  "is  fast  going  to 
hell.  It  likes  it;  and,  as  the  democratic  idea  is  that  it 
should  have  what  it  likes,  not  a  finger,  not  a  voice  is 
raised  to  stop  it.  Everything  that  stands  in  the  way — 
ideals,  decency,  responsibility,  passion,  love — everything 
is  smashed.  Nothing  can  stop  it  unless  their  eyes  are 
opened  and  their  poor  frozen  hearts  are  thawed." 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Mendel,  having  half- 
caught  that  last  phrase. 

"We  must  try  to  stop  it,"  said  Logan.  "We  may  be 
smashed  and  swept  aside,  but  we  must  try  to  stop  it. 
.  .  .  I've  been  to  see  Cluny  to-day.  He  has  sold  all 
your  things  except  one  drawing." 

"I  know,"  replied  Mendel,  who  had  received  an  amaz- 
ing account  which  showed  about  two-thirds  of  his  earn- 
ings swallowed  up  in  colours,  brushes,  frames,  and  pho- 
tographs. He  knew,  but  he  was  not  interested.  He  was 
unhappy  and  restless  and  felt  completely  empty. 

"We  passionate  natures,"  said  Logan,  striding  up  and 
down  like  Napoleon  on  the  quarter-deck  of  the  Bellero- 
phon — "we  passionate  natures  must  take  control.  We 
must  be  the  nucleus  of  true  fiery  stuff  to  resist  the  uni- 
versal corruption.  We  must  be  dedicated  to  the  wars 
of  the  spirit." 

"I've  got  a  splitting  headache,"  said  Mendel.  "Do 
you  mind  not  talking  so  much  ?  The  important  thing  for 
a  painter  is  painting.  What  happens  outside  that  doesn't 
matter." 

"You  think  so  now,"  said  Logan,  "but  you  wait. 
You'll  find  that  painting  won't  satisfy  you.  You  will 
want  to  know  what  it  is  all  for,  and  one  of  these  days 
you  will  be  thankful  to  me  for  telling  you.  .  .  .  Cluny 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE  235 

has  taken  on  some  of  my  things,  and  he  has  agreed  to 
our  having  an  exhibition  together.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

"So  long  as  I  sell  I  don't  care  where  I  exhibit.  Ex- 
hibitions are  always  horrible.  They  always  make  pictures 
look  mean  and  insignificant." 

"You  are  in  a  mood  to-day." 

"I  tell  you,"  cried  Mendel  in  a  fury — "I  tell  you  I  know 
what  art  is  better  than  anybody.  It  touches  life  at  one 
point,  and  one  point  only,  and  there  it  gives  a  great  light. 
If  life  is  too  mean  and  beastly  to  reach  that  point,  so 
much  the  worse  for  life.  It  does  not  affect  art,  which 
is  another  world,  where  everything  is  beautiful  and  true. 
I  know  it ;  I  have  always  known  it.  I  have  lived  in  that 
world.  I  live  in  it,  and  I  detest  everything  that  drags 
me  away  from  it  and  makes  me  live  in  the  world  of  filth 
and  thieves  and  scoundrels.  Yes,  I  detest  even  love,  even 
passion,  for  they  make  a  fool  and  a  beast  of  a  man." 

"Young!"  said  Logan.  "Very  young!  You'll  learn. 
.  .  .  But  do  be  sensible  and  control  your  beast  of  a 
temper.  Never  mind  my  programme  if  it  doesn't  inter- 
est you.  Will  you  accept  Cluny's  offer?  It  is  worth  it, 
for  it  will  make  you  independent." 

"How  much  does  he  want?" 

"A  dozen  exhibits  each." 

"Oh!  very  well." 

"And  will  you  come  and  dine  to-night  with  my  fool  of 
a  patron,  Mr.  Tilney  Tysoe?" 

"I  don't  want  to  know  fools.  I  know  quite  enough 
already." 

"But  I've  promised  to  take  you.  ...  He  adores  Bo- 
hemians, as  he  calls  us,  and  he  buys  pictures." 

"Does  he  give  you  good  food?" 

"Some  of  the  best  in  London." 


236  MENDEL 


"All  right." 

"Meet  us  at  the  Paris  Cafe  at  seven-thirty.  Don't  dress. 
Tysoe  would  be  dreadfully  disappointed  if  you  didn't 
turn  up  reeking  of  paint.  It  would  be  almost  better  not 
to  wash." 

"Is  Oliver  going?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  mind?" 

"No.  .  .  .  No." 

It  was  an  enormous  relief  to  Mendel  when  Logan 
went.  His  enthusiasm  was  too  exhausting,  and  it  was 
maddening  to  have  him  talking  of  success  and  the  triumph 
of  art  and  the  wars  of  the  spirit  when  life  had  appar- 
ently reached  up  and  extinguished  the  light  of  art  alto- 
gether. For  a  brief  moment,  for  a  day  or  two,  it  had 
almost  seemed  to  him  that  life  and  art  were  one,  that 
everything  was  solved  and  simple,  that  he  would  hence- 
forth only  have  to  paint  and  pictures  would  flow  from 
his  brush  as  easily  as  song  from  a  bird.  This  illusion 
had  survived  even  the  blow  of  Morrison's  departure.  He 
believed  that  it  was  enough  for  him  to  have  had  that 
hour  of  illumination,  and  that,  if  go  she  must,  he  could 
do  without  her.  The  flash  of  light  had  been  the  same, 
magnified  a  thousand  times,  as  the  inspiration  that  set 
him  at  work  on  a  picture  and  then  left  him  to  wrestle 
with  the  task  of  translating  it  into  terms  of  paint.  She 
had  appeared  to  him  exactly  in  the  same  visionary  way, 
an  image  shining  in  truth  and  beauty,  an  emanation  from 
that  other  world,  and  he  had  thought  he  would  at  worst 
be  left  with  the  terrible  ordeal  of  translating  the  vision 
into  paint.  .  .  .  But  when  he  looked  at  his  pictures  they 
oppressed  him  with  their  lifelessness  and  dark  dullness, 
and  the  idea  of  painting  disgusted  him.  It  was  even  an 
acute  pain,  almost  like  a  wound  upon  his  heart,  to  handle 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE  237 

a  brush.  He  could  not  finish  the  portrait  of  his  father 
and  mother,  and,  at  best,  he  could  only  force  himself  to 
paint  flower-pieces. 

He  was  incapable  of  deceiving  himself.  He  had  never 
heard  of  devout  lovers  sighing  in  vain,  and  he  had  no 
sources  of  comfort  within  himself.  Never  had  he  shrunk 
from  any  torment,  and  this  was  so  cruel  as  to  be  almost 
a  glory,  except  that  it  meant  such  a  deathly  stillness 
and  emptiness.  He  could  not  understand  it,  and  he  knew 
that  it  was  past  the  comprehension  of  all  whom  he  knew, 
even  his  mother.  But  he  set  his  teeth  and  vowed  that  he 
would  understand  it  if  it  took  years.  ...  A  little  girl, 
a  little  Christian  girl!  How  was  it  possible? 

There  was  some  relief  in  the  thought  of  her,  but  very 
little.  She  was  still  too  visionary,  and  when  he  tried 
to  think  of  her  in  life,  by  his  side,  it  was  impossibly  pain- 
ful. 

Where  was  she  ?  Why  did  she  not  write  ?  Her  silence 
was  like  ice  upon  his  heart.  .  .  .  What  kind  of  place 
did  she  live  in?  Among  what  people?  How  was  he  tc 
imagine  her?  ...  To  think  of  her  among  the  trees  or 
under  the  chestnut-tree  was  to  be  torn  with  impulses  that 
could  find  no  outlet ;  desires  for  creation  that  made  paint- 
ing seem  a  sham  and  a  mockery. 

So  keen,  and  fierce,  and  deep  was  his  suffering  that 
death  seemed  a  little  thing  in  comparison.  When  he  tried 
to  think  of  death  he  knew  that  it  was  not  worth  thinking 
of,  and  he  was  ashamed  that  the  thought  should  have  been 
in  his  mind. 

He  knew  that  he  must  understand  or  perish.  To  say 
that  he  was  in  love  was  hopelessly  inadequate.  He  knew 
how  people  were  when  they  were  in  love.  They  were  like 
Rosa,  like  animals,  stupid  and  thick-sighted,  with  a  thick- 
ening in  their  blood.  But  he  was  possessed  with  a  clair- 


238  MENDEL 


voyance  that  made  everything  round  him  seem  transpar- 
ent and  flimsy,  while  thought  crept  stealthily,  like  a  cat 
on  a  wall,  and  emotion  was  confounded. 

For  days  he  had  hardly  left  his  studio,  and  it  was  only 
with  the  greatest  effort  that  he  could  bring  himself  to 
join  Logan  at  the  Paris  Cafe.  He  felt  weak,  and  the 
streets  looked  very  strange,  clear  and  bright,  as  they  do 
to  a  convalescent.  As  he  entered  the  cafe  it  seemed  years 
since  he  had  been  there,  ages  since  he  had  sat  there  trem- 
bling with  excitement  as  he  waited  for  the  great  Calthrop 
to  come  in.  He  remembered  that  excitement  so  vividly 
that  something  like  it  came  rushing  up  in  him,  and  he 
clutched  at  it  for  relief.  .  .  .  Calthrop  was  there  with  his 
little  court  of  models  and  students.  Mendel  found  him- 
self laughing  nervously  as  he  stood  and  waited  for  the 
great  man  to  recognise  him.  Calthrop  looked  up  and 
nodded  to  him.  He  was  wildly,  absurdly  delighted.  He 
rushed  over  to  Logan  and  Oliver  and  shook  them  enthu- 
siastically by  the  hand. 

"Isn't  it  a  splendid  place?"  he  cried. 

"Have  something  to  drink,"  said  Logan.  "You've 
been  overworking." 

"You  must  say  it's  a  splendid  place,"  insisted  Mendel, 
"or  I  shall  go  home.  Just  by  that  table  where  Calthrop 
is  sitting  is  where  I  was  arrested." 

"Oh,  which  is  Calthrop?"  asked  Oliver  eagerly 

"The  big  man  over  there,"  said  Mendel.  "I  was  ar- 
rested just  there,  and  I  had  to  go  on  my  knees  to  the 
manager  to  make  him  allow  me  to  come  here  again.  I 
had  to  apologise  to  him.  At  the  time  it  was  the  greatest 
tragedy  of  my  life." 

He  had  forgotten  his  dislike  for  Oliver  in  his  elation 
at  finding  himself  gay  again,  and  he  chattered  on  of  the 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE  239 

days  when  the  cafe  had  seemed  to  him  a  heaven  full  of 
heroes.  Oliver  listened  to  him  like  a  child.  She  loved 
stories,  and  she  leaned  forward  and  drank  in  his  words, 
and  she  appeared  to  him  as  a  very  beautiful  woman,  de- 
sirable, intoxicating.  Yet  because  Logan  was  his  friend 
he  would  not  envy  him,  but  rejoiced  in  his  possession  of 
this  rare  treasure,  a  woman  who  could  deliver  up  to  him 
all  the  warm  secrets  of  life.  And  he  could  not  help  say- 
ing so,  and  telling  them  how  happy  it  made  him  to  be 
with  them. 

Logan  and  Oliver  glanced  at  each  other,  and  their 
hands  met  in  a  fierce  grip  under  the  table.  Mendel  could 
not  see  more  than  their  glance,  but  the  meeting  of  their 
eyes  sent  a  flame  like  a  white-hot  sword  darting  at  his 
heart.  The  sharp  pain  released  him,  and  sent  him  shoot- 
ing up  into  a  wilder  gaiety. 

He  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and,  turning  with  a 
start,  he  saw  Mr.  Sivwright,  his  first  master,  standing 
above  him.  He  rose  and  shook  hands. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mr.  Sivwright.  "I've 
been  meaning  to  write  to  you,  but  I've  been  away,  out 
of  London." 

Mendel  introduced  him  to  his  friends  and  asked  him 
to  sit  down. 

''I  can't  stop  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Sivwright,  "I'm  very 
busy.  I  have  just  started  a  club  for  artists— opens  at 
eleven.  These  absurd  closing  hours,  you  know.  I  hope 
you'll  join.  It  has  been  open  a  week.  Great  fun,  and  I 
want  some  frescoes  painted.  ...  I'm  very  proud  of  your 
success,  Kiihler.  I  feel  I  had  my  hand  in  it." 

He  produced  a  prospectus  and  laid  it  on  the  table, 
bowed  awkwardly  to  Oliver,  and  with  a  self-conscious 
swagger,  as  though  he  felt  the  eyes  of  all  in  the  cafe  upon 
him,  made  his  way  out. 


240  MENDEL 


"Who's  that  broken-down  tick  ?"  asked  Logan. 

"Sivwright,"  answered  Mendel.  "He  taught  me  when 
I  was  a  boy.  He's  a  very  bad  artist,  and  he  thinks  art 
ended  with  Corot.  I  learned  to  paint  like  Corot.  Really ! 
I  used  to  go  with  him  to  the  Park  and  weep  over  the 
trees  in  the  twilight:  I  never  thought  I  should  see  him 
again." 

"Oh !  people  bob  up,"  said  Logan.  "We  go  on  getting 
longer  in  the  tooth,  but  people  recur,  like  decimals." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  to  his  club?"  asked  Mendel. 
"It  says  'Dancing.'  I  feel  like  dancing." 

"Oh!  I  love  dancing,"  said  she. 

Logan  assumed  his  air  of  mysterious  importance  and 
said  it  was  time  to  go  to  Tysoe's. 

"We're  twenty  minutes  late,"  he  said;  "Tysoe  would 
be  dreadfully  put  out  if  we  were  punctual." 

As  Mendel  had  plenty  of  money  they  took  a  taxi-cab. 

Mr.  Tilney  Tysoe  was  an  idealist,  and  he  had  no  other 
profession.  He  was  a  very  tall  man  with  a  long  ca- 
daverous face,  great  bulging,  watery  eyes,  and  extraor- 
dinarily long  hands,  which  hung  limply  from  his  wrist, 
except  when  he  was  excited,  when  they  shot  up  with  ex- 
treme violence,  and  carried  his  arms  with  them  into  a  ges- 
ture so  awkward  that  he  had  to  find  relief  from  it  in  a 
shrug.  He  was  devoted  to  the  arts,  had  a  stall  at  the 
opera,  a  study  full  of  books,  and  several  rooms  full  of 
pictures.  An  artist  was  to  him  a  great  artist,  a  book  that 
pleased  him  was  a  great  book,  and  his  constant  lament 
was  over  the  dearth  of  great  men  in  public  life.  It  gave 
him  the  keenest  delight  to  see  Logan,  unkempt,  wild- 
haired,  shaggy,  violent  and  brusque,  enter  his  daintily 
furnished  drawing-room,  and  his  eyes  passed  eagerly  to 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE  241 

Oliver,  looking  just  as  she  ought  to  have  done,  the  mis- 
tress of  a  Bohemian. 

"Delighted !  Delighted !"  he  said  as  he  coiled  his  long 
white  hand  round  Mendel's  workmanlike  paw.  "My 
wife,  I  regret  to  say,  is  away.  She  will  be  so  sorry  to 
have  missed  you.  Like  me,  she  is  tired  of  the  shallow, 
artificial  people  we  live  among.  We  both  adore  sincere, 
real  people.  I  adore  sincerity.  Sincerity  is  genius." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Logan  in  a  sepulchral  voice  that 
made  Mendel  jump.  "At  least,  where  you  find  sin- 
cerity, you  may  be  sure  that  genius  is  not  far  behind." 

"I  bought  a  picture  of  yours  the  other  day,  Mr. 
Kiihler,"  said  Tysoe.  "I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  little 
I  gave  for  it,  but  works  of  art  are  priceless,  are  they 
not?" 

"Mine  are,"  said  Mendel,  overcoming  his  disgust  and 
beginning  to  enjoy  the  game. 

"You  think  so,"  rejoined  Tysoe  with  an  undulation  of 
his  long  body.  "And  why  shouldn't  you  say  so?  You 
are  sincere  and  strong.  You  must  force  your  talent  upon 
an  ungrateful  world." 

A  man-servant  announced  dinner,  and  Tysoe  gave  his 
arm  to  Oliver  and  led  her  downstairs,  while  Logan  put 
his  hand  on  Mendel's  shoulder  and  said  with  a  chuckle : — 

"Be  sincere." 

Mendel  began  at  once  with  the  soup,  as  though  he 
had  been  wound  up. 

"I  have  won  every  possible  prize  for  painting  and 
drawing,  and  the  first  picture  I  exhibited  was  the  sensa- 
tion of  the  year  in  art  circles." 

"I  remember  it,"  said  Tysoe. 

"Like  my  friend  Logan,  I  am  profoundly  dissatisfied 
with  the  state  of  art  in  England,  and  though  I  am  not 
an  Englishman  I  have  sufficient  love  for  the  country  to 


242  MENDEL 


wish  to  do  my  share  in  redeeming  it.  The  first  essential 
is  a  new  technique,  the  second  essential  is  a  new  spirit, 
and  the  third  essential  is  sincerity." 

"Wonderfully  true !"  cried  Tysoe.  "Have  some  sherry. 
Wonderfully  true!  Now,  take  the  ordinary  man.  He 
might  feel  all  that,  but  would  he  dare  to  say  it?  No. 
That  is  why  I,  as  an  idealist,  delight  in  the  society  of  ar- 
tists. You  know  where  you  are  with  them.  Facts  are 
facts  with  them." 

"I  do  like  this  sherry  wine,"  said  Oliver,  beginning 
to  feel  very  comfortable  in  the  warm  luxury  of  the  din- 
ing-room. 

Logan  kicked  her  under  the  table. 

Feeling  that  more  was  expected  of  him,  Mendel  wound 
himself  up  again  and  went  on: — 

"Logan  and  I  are  going  to  hold  an  exhibition  together. 
It  will  make  a  great  stir,  that  is,  if  London  is  not  alto- 
gether dead  to  sincerity.  We  think  it  is  time  that  inde- 
pendence among  artists  was  encouraged.  Art  must  not 
be  allowed  to  stop  short  at  Calthrop " 

He  stopped  dead  as  he  realised  that  the  wall  opposite 
him  held  half  a  dozen  drawings  by  Calthrop.  Logan 
rushed  in : — 

"Among  real  artists  there  is  no  rivalry.  Art  is  not  a 
competition.  It  is  a  constellation,  like  the  Milky  Way." 

"Ah!  La  Voie  Lactee!"  cried  Tysoe,  dropping  into 
French,  as  he  sometimes  did  when  he  was  moved.  "Quite 
so!  La  Voie  Lactee !" 

"At  home  in  Yorkshire,"  said  Oliver,  "there  are  some- 
times two  big  stars  hanging  just  over  the  top  of  the 
moors,  and  they  say  it  means  love  or  death  if  you  see  it 
at  half-past  nine." 

Logan  took  charge  of  the  conversation,  frowning  at 
Mendel  and  Oliver  as  though  they  were  naughty  chil- 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE  243 

dren.     He  described  the  masterpiece  he  was  painting, 
and  Tysoe  said : — 

"I'm  sure  I  shall  like  that.  It  sounds  big  and  force- 
ful, like  yourself.  Do  let  me  have  a  look  at  it  before 
any  one  else  sees  it." 

Then  he  added: — 

"I  saw  a  charming  still-life  of  yours  once.  A  melon, 
I  think  it  was.  What  has  become  of  it?" 

"It  was  sold,  I  fancy,"  replied  Mendel,  who  had  never 
painted  a  melon  in  his  life. 

"Ah !  A  pity.  I  wanted  some  little  thing  for  a  wed- 
ding-present. No  one  I  care  about  very  much,  so  it 
must  be  a  little  thing." 

"He  has  two  or  three  little  things  just  now,"  said  Lo- 
gan. "If  you  sent  a  messenger-boy  round  to  his  studio 
he  would  let  you  see  them." 

And  suddenly  Mendel  could  keep  the  game  up  no 
longer.  He  began  to  feel  choked  by  the  stuffy,  empty 
luxury  of  the  room,  with  its  excess  of  plate  and  glass  and 
flowers  and  furniture  and  pictures.  His  head  seemed 
to  be  on  the  point  of  bursting.  He  must  get  out — out 
and  away.  He  wanted  to  laugh,  to  scream  with  laughter, 
to  shout,  to  die  of  laughter,  anything  to  shake  off  the  op- 
pressive folly  of  his  host.  And  he  began  to  laugh,  to 
shake  and  heave  with  it.  He  suppressed  it,  but  at  last  he 
burst  out  with  a  roar  and  rushed  from  the  room. 

"Overworked,"  said  Logan  imperturbably.  "That's 
what  it  is.  The  poor  devil  hasn't  learned  sense  yet. 
It's  work,  work,  work  with  him,  all  the  time.  He  thinks 
of  nothing  but  his  art,  you  know.  Never  has,  ever  since 
he  was  a  boy.  .  .  .  He'll  be  a  very  great  genius,  and 
shall  be  left  far  behind." 

"Not  you,"  said  Tysoe,  "not  you.  I  know  no  man  n 
whom  I  have  greater  faith  than  you." 


244  MENDEL 


"Do  you  think  him  as  good  as  all  that?"  said  Oliver 
eagerly.  "I'm  always  telling  him  Kiihler's  not  a  patch 
on  him." 

Meanwhile  Mendel  had  taken  refuge  in  the  lavatory, 
where  he  shouted  and  shook  and  cried  with  laughter. 
When  he  had  recovered  himself  he  crawled  back  to  the 
dining-room  muttering  inaudible  apologies. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.    "I've  not  been  myself  lately." 

"You  mustn't  overdo  it,"  said  Tysoe  kindly.  "You 
have  plenty  of  time.  You  need  be  in  no  hurry  to  over- 
take Logan.  He  is  entering  upon  maturity.  Your  time 
will  come." 

Mendel  felt  disturbed.  He  had  not  thought  of  Logan 
seriously  as  a  painter,  certainly  not  as  a  rival  or  a  col- 
league. Logan  was  his  friend.  That  Logan  painted  was 
incidental.  It  irritated  him  to  have  to  sit  and  listen  to 
him  holding  forth  about  painting.  He  had  always  liked 
Logan's  talk,  but  had  never  really  connected  it  with  his 
work.  It  was  just  talk,  like  reading,  or  going  to  the 
cinema — a  sop,  a  drug,  soothing  and  pleasant  when  he 
was  in  the  mood  for  it,  maddening  when  he  was  not. 

It  was  as  though  a  spring  had  been  touched,  releasing 
his  intelligence,  which  had  always  been  kept  apart  from 
his  work.  For  the  first  time  he  felt,  though  never  so 
little,  detached  from  it,  while  at  the  same  moment  the 
awful  inward  pressure  of  his  emotional  crisis  was  re- 
laxed. He  was  happier,  and  less  wildly  gay,  and  he  be- 
gan to  realise  that  he  had  astonishingly  good  food  in 
front  of  him,  good  wine  in  plenty,  delicious  fruits  to 
come,  and  fragrant  coffee  brewing  there  on  the  side- 
board among  bright-hued  liqueur  bottles.  .  .  .  There  was 
no  need  to  listen  to  Logan.  There  was  pleasure  enough 
in  eating  and  drinking  and  watching  Oliver,  and  think- 
ing how  good  it  would  be  to  dance  with  her,  and  perhaps 


MR.  TILNEY  TYSOE  245 

with  others — little  women  whom  he  would  hold  in  his 
arms  and  feel  them  yield  to  every  movement  that  he 
made.  .  .  . 

He  was  left  alone  with  Oliver  after  dinner,  while  Lo- 
gan and  Tysoe  retired  to  the  study. 

"You've  made  him  very  happy,"  he  said  rather  un- 
steadily. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  she.  "It  was  like  a  Fate,  wasn't  it? 
I  always  had  a  feeling  that  I  wasn't  like  other  girls.  I 
always  thought  something  out  of  the  way  would  happen 
to  me,  though  I  never  thought  of  anything  like  this." 

"You  mustn't  tell  me  about  him,"  said  Mendel. 

"I  must  tell  some  one  or  I  shall  die.  He's  so  extraor- 
dinary. He  says  its  something  deeper  than  love,  and  I 
think  it  must  be." 

"You  must  not  talk  about  it,"  he  said. 

"It  makes  all  the  stuff  he  talks  about  seem  silly.  I 
don't  understand  it,  do  you?" 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  swung  her  foot,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door  waiting  for  Logan  to  return. 

Mendel's  dislike  of  her  sprang  up  in  him  again,  and  he 
was  a  little  afraid  of  her :  of  her  big,  fleshy  body,  so  full 
now  of  little  trickling  streams  of  pleasure;  of  her  eyes, 
watching,  watching,  with  the  strange,  glassy  steadiness 
of  the  eyes  of  a  bird  of  prey.  ...  He  decided  that  he 
would  not  dance  with  her.  He  would  dance  with  the  oth- 
ers— the  little,  harmless,  pretty  fools. 

To  reassure  himself  he  told  himself  that  Logan  was 
happy,  and  strong  enough  to  resist  the  growing  will  in 
this  woman. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE 


OGAN  had  cajoled  twenty  pounds  out  of  Mr.  Tysoe, 
-*-^  who  stood  on  his  doorstep,  dangling  his  long  hands, 
while  his  admired  guests  crept  into  a  taxi-cab.  He  swung 
from  side  to  side : — 

"I  have  had  a  most  delightful  evening — most  charm- 
ing, most  inspiring." 

Inside  the  cab  Logan  waved  the  cheque  triumphantly 
and  Oliver  tried  to  snatch  it  from  him.  They  had  an 
excited  scuffle,  which  ended  in  a  kiss. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  man  ?"  asked  Mendel. 

"He's  just  a  fool,"  replied  Logan,  "a  padded  fool.  His 
only  virtue  is  that  he  does  really  think  me  a  wonderful 
fellow,  and  he  is  kind.  But  how  I  hate  such  kindness, 
the  last  virtue,  the  last  refuge  of  the  decrepit!  It  is  a 
perfume,  a  herb  with  which  they  are  embalmed." 

"I  thought  he  was  a  very  nice  old  gentleman,"  said 
Oliver. 

"He  seemed  to  me,"  said  Mendel,  "the  kind  of  man 
who  thinks  of  nothing  but  women  all  day  long." 

"Hit  it  in  once!"  cried  Logan.  "A  parrot  will  not  do 
more  for  an  almond  than  he  will  for  a  commodious  drab. 
He  could  take  a  nun  and  by  force  of  living  with  her 
and  surrounding  her  with  every  luxury  turn  her  into  a 
whore,  because  she  would  in  time  become  only  another 

246 


THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE  247 

luxury.     That  is  what  men  grow  into  if  they  lose  the 
spirit  of  freedom.  .  .  .  Where  are  we  going  to?" 

"I  told  the  man  to  go  to  Sivwright's  club.  It  is  called 
The  Merlin's  Cave." 

The  club  proved  to  be  a  cellar  filled  with  little  tables. 
There  was  a  commissionaire  at  the  door  and  a  book  had 
to  be  signed.  The  rack  of  the  cloakroom  contained  sev- 
eral silk-lined  overcoats  and  opera-hats. 

"It's  going  to  be  damned  expensive,"  said  Logan. 

"I'll  pay,"  replied  Mendel.     "It's  my  fault." 

Two  tall  young  men  in  immaculate  evening  dress  had 
entered  just  after  them.  They  gave  out  an  air  of  wealth 
and  cleanliness  and  made  Logan  and  Oliver  look  common 
and  shabby.  Mendel  hated  the  two  young  men.  What 
had  they  done  to  look  so  well-fed  and  unruffled?  Obvi- 
ously they  had  only  to  hold  out  their  hands  to  have  every- 
thing they  wanted  put  into  them.  .  .  .  They  looked 
slightly  self-conscious  and  ashamed  of  themselves,  and 
wore  a  look  of  alarmed  expectancy  as  they  went  down- 
stairs. 

Why  did  they  come  there  if  they  were  ashamed?  and 
why  did  they  expect  an  Asmodean  lewdness  of  an  artists' 
club,  they  for  whom  the  flesh-markets  of  the  music-hall 
promenades  existed? 

"Real  swells,  aren't  they?"  said  Oliver,  overawed. 

The  strains  of  a  small  orchestra  came  floating  up  the 


"Come  on,"  said  Mendel,  "I  want  to  dance."  And  he 
caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  dragged  her  downstairs. 

A  girl  was  standing  on  a  table  singing  an  idiotic  song 
with  a  syncopated  chorus  which  a  few  people  took  up  in 
a  half-hearted  fashion.  The  sound  of  it  was  thin  and 
depressing. 


248  MENDEL 


"The  same  old  game,"  said  Logan.  "Playing  at  being 
wicked.  Why  can't  they  stick  to  their  commercial  beast- 
liness? I  should  be  ashamed  to  bring  any  woman  into 
this.  I  am  ashamed."  He  half  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Oh!  don't  go,"  pleaded  Oliver,  who  was  entranced 
with  her  first  sight  of  what  she  called  a  gay  life.  It  was 
to  her  like  a  stage  spectacle.  "Oh!  there's  that  Calthrop; 
I  suppose  all  those  odd  women  with  him  are  models." 

Calthrop  was  surrounded  by  admiring  students,  among 
them  Morrison,  sitting  prim  and  astonished  and  obviously 
amazed  to  find  herself  where  she  was.  Mendel  began  to 
tremble,  and  his  heart  beat  violently,  as  he  stared  at  her 
— stared  and  stared. 

She  had  lied  to  him  then!  She  had  not  had  to  go 
home!  She  could  strike  him  down  and  then  come  to 
amuse  herself  at  such  a  place  as  this! 

Was  she  with  Mitchell  ?  No,  Mitchell  was  not  among 
the  satellites. 

How  strange  she  looked !  a  wild  violet  in  a  hot-house. 
He  waited  for  her  to  glance  in  his  direction,  but  she 
seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the  singer  and  in  the  song,  and 
every  now  and  then  she  smiled,  though  obviously  not  at 
the  song — at  something  that  amused  her  or  pleased  her 
in  her  thoughts.  She  could  smile  then  and  be  happy,  and 
all  his  wild  emotions  had  made  no  invasion  into  her  life. 
.  .  .  No;  she  would  not  look  in  his  direction.  Perhaps 
she  had  seen  him  come  in  and  refused  to  see  him. 

Would  the  dancing  never  begin?  The  dancing  took 
place  on  a  slightly  raised  floor.  If  he  danced  there  she 
would  have  to  see  him. 

He  found  a  warm  hand  placed  on  his  leg,  and  turning 
he  saw  Jessie  Petrie,  a  model,  with  whom  he  had  danced 
at  the  studios  and  at  the  Detmold. 


THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE  249 

"I  thought  I  was  never  going  to  see  you  again,"  she 
said,  "and  Mitchell  said  you  had  gone  mad." 

"Do  I  look  it?"  he  asked. 

"No.  You  look  bonnier  than  ever.  I'm  on  my  own 
again  now.  Thompson  has  gone  to  Paris.  He  says 
the  only  painters  are  there.  I  think  he's  going  mad,  be- 
cause he  paints  nothing  but  stripes  and  triangles.  And 
he  was  such  a  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  feeling  awfully  lonely  be- 
cause Tilly  has  gone  to  Canada.  Samuelson  gave  her  the 
chuck  and  she  went  out  to  her  cousin  in  Canada,  who 
had  always  been  wanting  to  marry  her.  .  .  .  Are  you  still 
down  in  Whitechapel  ?  I  do  hate  going  to  see  you  there. 
Why  don't  you  move  up  to  the  West  End  ?  I  could  come 
and  live  with  you  then,  for  I  do  hate  being  at  a  loose 
end." 

She  was  adorably  pretty,  dark,  with  eyes  like  damsons, 
lovely  red  lips,  touched  up  with  carmine,  and  a  soft  white 
neck  that  trembled  as  she  spoke  like  the  breast  of  a  sing- 
ing bird. 

"Oh !  who  do  you  think  I  saw  the  other  day  ?  Hetty 
Finch !  She  has  a  flat  and  a  motor-car,  but  I  don't  believe 
she  is  married."  She  looked  suddenly  solemn  as  she 
added:  "The  baby's  dead."  Then  she  rattled  on: 
"Isn't  she  lucky?  But  she's  an  awful  snob.  Would 
hardly  speak  to  me !" 

"She's  a  beast  of  a  woman." 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  place?  I  suppose  ^if  the 
swells  come  it'll  be  a  success,  but  they  do  spoil  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mendel.  "They  spoil  everything.  'When 
do  they  begin  to  dance?" 

"They've  nearly  finished  the  programme.  They  have 
to  have  a  programme  to  make  people  eat  and  drink." 

"Let's  have  some  champagne." 

He  called  the  waiter  and  ordered  a  bottle. 


250  MENDEL 


"Been  selling  lately?" 

"No,"  he  said;  "but  I  want  to  dance.  Do  you  hear? 
I  want  to  dance." 

"Dancing,"  Logan  threw  in,  "is  the  beginning  of  art. 
It  is  too  primitive  for  me,  or  I'm  too  old." 

A  thin-faced  long-haired  poet  mounted  the  table  and 
read  some  verses,  which  the  popping  of  corks  and  the 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks  rendered  inaudible.  The  poet 
went  on  interminably,  and  at  last  some  one  began  drum- 
ming on  the  table  and  shouting  "Dance !  Dance !  Dance !" 
The  poet  stuck  to  it.  Bread  was  thrown  at  him  and  the 
shouting  became  general. 

At  last  the  orchestra  struck  up  through  the  poet's 
reedy  chanting,  couples  made  their  way  to  the  stage,  and 
the  dancing  began.  Morrison  still  sat  prim  and  preoc- 
cupied. Mendel  put  his  arm  round  Jessie's  waist,  his 
fingers  sank  into  her  young,  supple  body,  and  he  lifted 
her  to  her  feet  and  rushed  with  her  over  to  the  stage. 
The  whole  place  was  humming  with  life,  beating  to  the 
chopped  rhythm  of  the  vacant  American  tune. 

"I  do  love  dancing  with  you,"  said  Jessie,  as  he  swung 
her  into  the  moving  throng  of  brilliantly  dressed  women 
and  black-coated  men,  so  locked  together  that  they  were 
like  one  creature,  a  strange,  grotesque  quadruped.  And 
Jessie  so  melted  into  him,  so  became  a  part  of  him,  that 
he  too  became  another  creature,  an  organism  in  the  whirl- 
ing circle  supported  and  spun  round  by  the  music.  It 
was  glorious  to  feel  his  will  relaxing,  to  feel  the  lithe, 
soft  woman  in  his  arms  yield  to  every  impulse,  every 
movement.  He  danced  with  a  terrific  concentration,  with 
a  wiry  collected  force  that  made  Jessie  feel  as  light  as  a 
feather. 

"Oo!  That  was  lovely,"  she  said  when  the  music 
stopped.  "You  do  dance  lovely." 


THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE  251 

"It  was  pretty  good,"  said  Mendel.  "But  wait  until 
they  play  a  waltz." 

"I  want  to  dance  with  you,"  cried  Oliver.  "You  said 
I  should  dance  with  you." 

And  she  had  the  next  dance  with  him ;  but  there  was  no 
lightness  in  her,  only  a  greedy  fumbling  after  sensa- 
tion. 

"This  is  awful !"  thought  Mendel,  never  for  a  moment 
losing  himself,  and  all  the  while  conscious  of  Morrison 
sitting  there  unmoved :  of  Morrison,  whom  he  was  try- 
ing to  forget.  Oliver  seemed  to  envelop  him,  to  swallow 
him  up.  He  was  conscious  of  holding  an  enormous 
woman  in  his  arms  and  her  contact  was  distasteful.  The 
dance  seemed  endless.  Would  the  music  never  stop?  .  .  . 
One,  two,  three.  .  .  .  One,  two,  three.  ...  It  was  like  a 
dancing  class  with  the  fat  Jewesses  at  home.  .  .  .  And 
all  the  time  he  was  conscious  of  Morrison's  big  blue  eyes 
staring  at  him.  Would  she  never  stop  her  damnable 
smiling? 

He  returned  Oliver  to  Logan  shamefacedly,  as  though 
he  were  paying  a  long-standing  debt. 

Jessie  returned  from  her  other  partner  to  him. 

"Oh !  It  isn't  anything  like  the  same,"  she  said ;  "and 
that  is  such  a  lovely  tune  to  dance  to." 

Now  that  the  dancers  were  warmed  up  they  refused 
to  allow  any  intervals.  They  had  their  partners  and 
were  unwilling  to  stop.  The  orchestra  was  worked  up 
into  a  kind  of  frenzy,  and  Mendel  and  Jessie  were  whirled 
into  an  ecstasy.  They  abandoned  the  conventional  steps 
and  improvised,  gliding,  whirling,  swooping  suddenly 
through  the  dancers.  Sometimes  he  picked  her  up  and 
whirled  her  round,  sometimes  his  hands  were  locked  on 
her  waist  and  she  bent  backwards — back,  back,  until  he 


252  MENDEL 


pulled  her  up  and  she  fell  upon  his  breast,  happy,  pant- 
ing, deliriously  happy. 

Morrison  sat  watching.  She  was  trembling  and  felt 
very  miserable.  She  had  been  brought  there  by  Clowes, 
who  had  been  unable  to  resist  the  flattery  of  Calthrop's 
invitation.  All  these  people  seemed  to  her  to  be  pretend- 
ing to  be  happy,  and  she  was  oppressed  with  it  all.  She 
had  not  seen  Mendel  until  he  mounted  the  stage,  and 
then  her  heart  ached.  She  remembered  the  etched  phrases 
of  his  letter  to  her.  She  had  written  to  him,  but  nothing 
she  could  express  on  paper  conveyed  her  feeling,  her 
sense  of  being  in  the  wrong,  and  her  deep,  instinctive  con- 
viction of  the  injustice  of  that  wrong.  .  .  .  He  had 
placed  her  in  the  wrong  by  talking  of  marriage  so  pre- 
maturely. As  she  looked  round  the  room  she  was  op- 
pressed by  all  the  men :  great,  hulking  creatures,  clumsy, 
cocksure,  insensible,  spinning  their  vain  thoughts  and 
vainer  emotions  round  the  women  as  a  spider  spins  its 
threads  round  a  caught  fly.  .  .  .  She  had  often  watched 
spiders  dealing  with  the  booty  in  their  webs,  and  Cal- 
throp  reminded  her  of  a  spider  when  he  looked  at  Clowes 
and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  or  fingered  her  arm. 
And  Clowes  lay  still  like  a  caught  fly  and  suffered  it. 
.  .  .  Morrison  was  in  revolt  against  it  all.  She  was  full 
of  sweet  life,  and  would  not  have  it  so  treated.  Her 
prudery  was  not  shocked,  for  she  had  no  prudery.  The 
men  might  have  their  women  so,  if  the  women  liked  it, 
but  never,  never  would  she  be  so  treated. 

It  was  because  she  had  been  able  to  sweep  aside  the 
sticky  threads  of  vanity  with  Mendel  that  the  ecstasy 
of  the  woods  and  the  Heath  had  been  possible. 

As  she  watched  him  now,  she  knew  that  he  was  differ- 
ent from  all  the  others.  He  had  brought  an  exaltation 


THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE  253 

into  the  face  of  the  common  little  girl  who  was  his  part- 
ner. He  was  giving  her  life,  not  taking  it  from  her. 

Yet  to  see  him  made  her  unhappy.  The  music  was 
vulgar,  the  people  were  vulgar,  and  he  had  no  true  place 
among  them.  But  how  he  enjoyed  it  all! 

She  shook  with  impatience  at  herself.  It  was  hateful 
to  be  outside  it,  looking  on,  looking  on.  A  young  student 
had  pestered  her  to  dance  with  him.  She  turned  to  him 
and  said : — 

"I  want  to  dance,  please." 

Delighted,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  gave  her  his  arm,  and 
whirled  her  into  the  dance. 

Slowing  down  to  take  breath,  Mendel  looked  in  her 
direction.  She  was  gone!  A  black  despair  seized  him, 
a  groan  escaped  him ;  he  hugged  Jessie  tight  against  his 
body  and  plunged  madly  into  the  dance. 

The  musicians  had  been  given  champagne.  The  violin- 
ist began  to  embroider  upon  the  tune  and  the  'cellist  fol- 
lowed with  voluptuous  thrumming  chords. 

Jessie  gave  little  cries  of  happiness  to  feel  the  grow- 
ing strength  in  Mendel's  arms,  the  waxing  power  of  his 
smooth  movements.  She  gave  little  cries  like  the  call  of 
a  quail,  and  he  laughed  gleefully  every  time  she  cried. 
He  could  feel  the  force  rising  in  him.  It  would  surely 
burst  out  of  him  and  break  into  molten  streams  of  laugh- 
ter, leaving  him  deliciously  light,  as  light  and  absurd  as 
dear  little  Jessie,  who  was  swinging  on  the  music  like  a 
dewdrop  on  a  gossamer.  ...  If  only  the  music  would 
last  long  enough !  He  would  be  as  tremulous  and  light 
as  she,  and  while  that  lightness  lasted  he  could  love  her 
and  taste  life  at  its  highest  point— for  her.  ...  She  was 
aware  of  his  desire,  and  swung  to  it.  It  was  like  a  wind 
swaying  her,  thistledown  as  she  was ;  like  a  wind  blowing 


254  MENDEL 


her  through  the  air  on  a  summer's  day.  O  that  it  might 
never  end,  that  the  sky  might  never  be  overcast,  that  the 
rain  might  never  come  and  the  night  might  never  fall. 
.  .  .  Terrible  things  had  happened  to  Jessie  in  the  night, 
and  she  was  happy  in  the  sun. 

Mendel  was  past  all  dizziness.  The  room  had  spun 
round  until  it  could  spin  no  more,  and  then  it  had  un- 
wound itself,  making  him  feel  weak  and  giddy.  He  was 
very  nearly  clear-headed,  and  every  now  and  then  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Logan  sketching  and  of  Oliver,  sit- 
ting with  a  sulky  pout  on  her  lips  and  tears  in  her  eyes 
because  she  wanted  to  dance  and  knew  she  had  made  a 
failure  of  it. 

"Lovely!  lovely!  lovely!"  sighed  Jessie. 

"You  are  like  the  white  kernel  of  a  nut,"  said  Men- 
del, "when  the  shell  is  broken." 

"Do  let  me  come  and  sit  for  you,"  she  said.  "I  won't 
want  anything  except  my  dinner." 

"Better  keep  to  the  dancing,"  he  answered,  as  he  spun 
her  round  to  stop  her  talking. 

She  began  to  stroke  his  neck  and  to  press  her  face 
against  his  breast.  At  the  same  moment  he  saw  Morrison 
among  the  dancers.  He  slowed  down  and  then  stopped 
dead.  The  music  rose  to  an  exultant  riot  of  sound. 

"Please,  please!"  cried  Jessie,  clinging  to  him;  but  he 
had  forgotten  her. 

Morrison  and  her  partner  swept  past  him,  and  he 
watched  them  go  the  full  circle.  She  saw  him  standing, 
and  as  she  approached  broke  away  from  her  partner. 

"Why  aren't  you  dancing  with  me?"  he  said,  shaking 
with  eagerness  to  hear  her  speak. 

"I'm  no  good  at  dancing,"  she  said.    "I  don't  enjoy  it." 

"Who  brought  you  here  ?    Calthrop  ?" 


THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE  255 

"He  brought  Clowes  and  me.  .  .  .  You  mustn't  stop 
dancing.  Your  partner.  .  .  ." 

"Please,  please!"  cried  Jessie,  stamping  her  foot;  "the 
music  is  going  to  stop." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  turning  to  Morrison.  "Arc 
you  going  home?" 

"The  day  after  to-morrow." 

"I  must  see  you." 

Before  she  could  reply  her  partner,  who  had  lost  his 
temper,  seized  her  and  made  her  finish  the  dance,  and 
when  it  was  over  he  marched  her  back  to  Calthrop's 
party,  and  he  never  left  her  side  again. 

Mendel  returned  to  Logan  and  Oliver,  to  find  them 
impatient  to  go.  The  end  of  an  evening  always  found 
them  in  this  impatient  mood. 

"It  all  bears  out  what  I  say,"  said  Logan.  "All  this 
night-club  business.  People  have  to  go  mad  in  London 
before  they  can  taste  life  at  all." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  come  home  and  sleep  on  your 
sofa?"  asked  Mendel.  "I  can't  face  my  studio  to-night." 

"Why  don't  you  take  Jessie  home  with  you?"  said 
Logan;  "I'm  sure  she'd  like  to." 

Mendel  winced,  and  Jessie's  lips  began  to  tremble.  She 
was  still  suffering  from  the  sudden  end  to  her  happiness. 
She  looked  at  him,  almost  hoping  that  he  was  going  to 
make  reparation  to  her. 

"You  know  I  can't,"  he  said;  "I  live  in  my  brother's 
house  and  he  is  a  respectable  married  man." 

He  knew  he  was  in  for  a  terrible  night  of  reaction  and 
desperate  blind  emotion ;  at  the  same  time  he  did  not  wish 
to  hurt  Jessie  more  than  he  had  done. 

"I'll  take  you  home  in  a  cab,"  he  said.  "But  I  won't 
stay,  if  you  don't  mind.  I'm  done  up.  If  you  and  Oliver 


256  MENDEL 


walk  half  way,  Logan,  we  ought  to  be  there  about  the 
same  time." 

Jessie  was  appeased.  A  little  kindness  went  a  long  way 
with  her,  and  she  hated  to  be  a  nuisance  to  a  man. 

When  the  cab  stopped  outside  the  door  of  her  lodgings 
she  flung  her  arms  round  Mendel's  neck  ana  kissed  him, 
saying : — 

"You  are  a  darling,  and  I  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  you." 

"You  shall  come  and  sit  for  me,"  he  replied.  "Good- 
night!" 

"Good-night!" 

Good-night!  A  night  of  tossing  to  and  fro,  of  hear- 
ing terrifying  noises  in  the  darkness,  of  hearing  Logan 
and  Oliver  in  the  next  room,  of  shutting  his  ears  to  what 
he  heard,  of  fancying  he  heard  some  one  calling  him  .  .  . 
her  voice !  Surely  she  had  called  him,  and  the  ache  and 
the  torment  in  his  flesh  was  the  measure  of  her  need  of 
him.  .  .  .  Strange,  blurred  thoughts;  gusts  of  defiance 
and  revolt;  glimpses  of  pictures,  subjects  for  pictures, 
colours  and  shapes.  .  .  .  His  mother's  hands  clutching  a 
fish  and  bringing  a  knife  down  on  to  it.  There  was  a 
blue  light  on  the  knife.  It  would  be  very  hard  to  get 
that  and  to  keep  it  subordinate  to  the  blue  in  the  fish's 
scales.  .  .  .  His  father  and  mother,  eternally  together, 
in  an  affection  that  never  found  any  expression,  harsh 
and  bitter,  but  strongly  savoured,  like  everything  else  in 
their  lives.  .  .  .  Issy  and  Rosa,  much  the  same  as  Logan 
and  Oliver,  and  to  them  also  he  had  to  shut  his  ears.  .  .  . 
The  goggle-eyed  man  at  the  Pot-au-Feu.  .  .  .  London, 
London,  the  roaring  fiery  furnace  of  London  in  which 
he  was  burning  alive,  while  flames  of  madness  shot  up 
above  him.  .  Music.  ,  .  There  was  a  music  in  his 


THE  MERLIN'S  CAVE  257 

soul,  a  music  and  mystery  that  could  rise  with  an  easy 
power  above  all  the  flames.  .  .  .  What  did  it  matter  that 
his  body  was  burned,  if  his  soul  could  rise  like  that  up 
to  the  stars  and  beyond  the  stars  to  the  point  where  art 
touched  life  and  gave  out  its  iridescent  beneficent  light? 
.  .  .  Life,  flames,  body,  stars,  all  might  perish  and  fade 
away,  but  the  soul  had  its  knowledge  of  eternity  and  could 
not  be  quenched.  .  .  .  Eternal  art,  divine  art,  the  world 
of  form,  shaped  in  the  knowledge  of  eternity,  wherein 
life  and  death  are  but  a  day  and  a  night.  .  .  .  Sickening 
doubt  of  himself,  sinking  down,  down  into  eternity  to 
be  a  part  of  it,  never  to  know  it,  never  to  see  the  light 
of  art,  lost  to  eternity  in  eternity.  ...  He  sat  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  imagined  himself  back  in  the  one 
room  in  Gun  Street,  looking  at  the  recumbent  bodies 
of  his  family,  lost  in  sleep,  huddled  together  in  degrada- 
tion. ...  It  would  have  been  better  to  have  gone  home 
with  Jessie.  She  would  have  given  him  rest  and  sleep. 
...  No,  no,  no !  ...  She  was  going  away  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  He  must  see  her  before  she  went,  with  her 
big  blue  eyes  and  short  chestnut  hair.  She  had  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  dance.  She  had  broken  away  from 
her  partner,  and  on  Hampstead  Heath  she  had  said  "I 
love  you." 


CHAPTER  IX 


GOOD-BYE 


T  OGAN  came  in  early  in  the  morning  to  make  tea.  He 
••— '  shut  the  door  carefully  and  came  and  sat  on  Men- 
del's sofa. 

"She  says  you  hate  her,"  he  said. 

"I?"  answered  Mendel.  "No.  I.  ...  What  can 
make  her  say  that?  Because  I  didn't  dance  with  her?  I 
had  Jessie.  You  ought  to  have  danced  with  her." 

"I'm  glad  she  didn't  dance.  It  might  make  her  break 
out.  Women  are  very  queer  things.  You  never  know 
where  they  will  break  out.  .  .  .  You  make  love  to  them, 
touch  a  spring  in  them,  and  God  knows  where  it  may 
lead  you.  .  .  .  You're  not  in  love  with  that  mop-haired 
girl,  are  you  ?" 

"What  if  I  am?" 

"She's  just  a  doll-faced  miss.  You're  taken  with  the 
type  because  you're  unused  to  it.  For  God's  sake  don't 
take  it  seriously.  You're  much  too  good  to  waste  your- 
self on  women.  She'll  drive  you  mad  with  purity  and 
chivalrous  devotion  and  all  the  other  schoolgirl  twaddle. 
Leave  all  that  to  the  schoolboy  English.  It's  all  they're 
good  for.  They've  bred  it  on  purpose  to  be  the  mother 
of  more  schoolboys.  It  is  the  basis  of  the  British  Em- 
pire. But  what  is  the  British  Empire  to  you  or  any  ar- 
tist? Nothing." 

258 


"GOOD-BYE"  259 


"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,"  said  Mendel. 

"She  won't  marry  you,"  said  Logan.  "She  won't  live 
with  you.  She'll  give  you  nothing.  She'll  madden  you 
with  her  conceited  stupidity  and  wreck  your  work.  .  .  . 
What  you  want  is  what  every  decent  man  wants — to  take 
a  woman  and  keep  her  in  her  place,  so  that  she  can't  in- 
terfere with  him.  That's  what  I've  done,  and  it's  made 
a  man  of  me,  but  I'm  not  going  to  let  her  know  it.  She'd 
be  crowing  like  an  old  hen  that  has  laid  an  egg.  .  .  .  No 
farmyard  life  for  me,  thanks." 

Oliver  bawled  for  her  tea  and  Logan  hastened  to 
make  it,  and  disappeared  into  the  bedroom. 

Mendel  got  up  and  dressed,  feeling  eager  for  the  day. 
The  sun  shone  in  through  the  window  and  filled  the 
room  with  a  dusty  glow,  making  even  the  shabby  bareness 
of  the  place  seem  charming. 

"It  is  a  good  day,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  shall  work 
to-day."  And  he  was  annoyed  at  not  having  his  canvas 
at  hand. 

On  an  easel  stood  the  picture  which  Logan  had  de- 
scribed to  Tysoe,  a  London  street  scene  with  a  group  of 
people  gazing  into  a  shop  window.  It  was  a  clever 
piece  of  work,  very  adroit  in  the  handling  of  the  paint 
and  pleasing  in  colour,  but  Mendel  had  an  odd  uncom- 
fortable feeling  of  having  seen  it  before,  and  yet  he 
knew  that  the  technique  was  novel.  Yet  it  was  precisely 
the  technique  that  seemed  familiar.  Certain  liberties  had 
been  taken  with  the  perspective  which,  though  they  were 
new  to  him,  did  not  surprise  him. 

Logan  came  in  dressed  and  said  that  Oliver  would 
not  be  a  minute.  She  appeared  in  a  dressing-gown. 

"Well?"  she  said;  "none  the  worse  for  last  night?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Mendel.  "Why  should  I  be?  I 
enjoyed  it." 


260  MENDEL 


"Did  Logan  tell  you  we  were  going  to  Paris?" 

"No.     He  said  nothing  about  it." 

"I'm  dying  to  go  to  Paris.  He  says  they  understand 
the  kind  of  thing  we  had  last  night  in  Paris." 

"You're  not  going  for  good,  are  you?"  asked  Mendel. 

"No.  Just  a  trip.  I  want  you  to  come  too.  We'll 
see  some  pictures  and  have  a  good  time.  I  can't  speak 
a  word  of  French,  but  they  say  English  is  good  enough 
anywhere." 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  go,"  said  Mendel.  "I  want  a  change, 
before  I  settle  down  to  working  for  the  exhibition.  Is 
that  picture  going  to  be  in  it  ?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  like  it?" 

"I  like  it.  It  seems  to  me  new.  Stronger  than  most 
things.  All  these  people  going  in  for  thin,  flat  colour 
and  greens  and  mauves  make  me  long  for  something 
solid." 

"I'm  going  to  show  that  and  a  portrait  of  Oliver." 

"I  want  my  breakfast,"  said  she. 

"Oh!  shut  up.  We're  talking.  .  .  .  I've  just  begun  the 
portrait.  No  psychological  nonsense  about  it.  It's  just 
the  head  of  a  woman  in  paint.  I  don't  want  any  damn 
fool  writing  about  my  picture :  she  is  wiser  than  the  chair 
on  which  she  sits  and  the  secrets  of  the  antimacassar  are 
hers.  A  picture's  a  picture  and  a  book's  a  book." 

"I  do  want  my  breakfast,"  sang  Oliver. 

Logan  went  livid  with  fury. 

"Be  silent,  woman,"  he  said. 

"I  shan't,  so  there.     I  want  my  breakfast." 

"Why  the  hell  don't  you  get  the  breakfast  then?" 

"Because  you  said  you  would." 

Logan  began  to  prepare  the  breakfast — rashers  of  ba- 
con and  eggs. 

"You  don't  mind  eating  pork?"  he  asked  Mendel. 


"GOOD-BYE"  261 


"No.    I  like  it,  but  I  never  get  it  at  home." 

"Fancy  Jews  being  still  as  strict  as  that !"  said  Oliver. 
"Just  like  they  were  in  Shakespeare's  time." 

"Just  as  they  were  in  the  time  of  Moses  and  Aaron," 
said  Mendel.  "They  don't  alter  except  that  they  haven't 
got  a  country  to  fight  for." 

"Thank  God!"  said  Logan,  "or  there'd  be  a  bloody 
mess  every  other  week.  Fancy  a  Jewish  Empire,  with 
you  sent  out,  like  David,  to  hit  the  Czar  of  Russia  or 
Chaliapine  in  the  eye  with  a  stone  from  a  sling.  Think 
of  your  sister-in-law  luring  the  Kaiser  into  a  tent  and 
knocking  a  nail  through  his  head.  I  wish  she  could,  upon 
my  soul  I  do !" 

"I  think  we  should  only  be  led  into  captivity  again," 
said  Mendel.  "Our  fighting  days  are  over,  and  some  one 
told  me  the  other  day  that  many  of  the  most  advanced 
artists  in  Paris  are  Jews." 

"If  they  were  all  like  you,"  said  Logan,  "I  shouldn't 
mind.  But  I'm  afraid  they're  not.  The  Jews  have  got 
all  the  money  and  they  keep  the  other  people  fighting 
for  it,  and  charge  them  a  hell  of  a  lot  for  guns  and  uni- 
forms to  do  it  with.  Oh !  there  are  Christians  in  it  too, 
but  they  have  to  be  nice  to  the  Jews  to  be  allowed  to  share 
the  spoils.  I  don't  wonder  the  Jews  left  the  Promised 
Land  when  they  found  the  world  was  inhabited  by  fools 
who  would  let  them  plunder  it." 

"There's  not  much  plunder  in  my  family,"  said  Mendel. 

After  breakfast  he  declared  that  he  must  go,  and 
Logan  announced  that  he  would  walk  with  him  to  en- 
joy the  lovely  sunny  day.  Oliver  wanted  to  come  too, 
but  he  told  her  to  stay  where  she  was,  and  he  left  her 
in  tears. 

"She's  got  a  bad  habit  of  crying,"  he  said,  "and  she 


262  MENDEL 


must  be  broken  of  it.  She  cries  if  I  don't  speak  to 
her  for  an  hour.  She  cries  if  I  go  out  without  telling 
her  where  I  am  going.  She  cries  if  I  curse  and  swear 
over  my  work,  and  if  I  am  pleased  with  it  she  cries  be- 
cause I  am  never  so  happy  with  her.  ...  I  feel  like 
hitting  her  sometimes,  but  it  isn't  her  fault.  She  hasn't 
settled  down  to  it  yet.  She  says  I  don't  love  her  when 
she  knows  she  never  expected  to  be  loved  so  much.  And 
she  can't  get  used  to  it." 

"Why  don't  you  paint  her  crying?"  asked  Mendel 
maliciously. 

"By  Jove!  I  will,"  cried  Logan.  "Damned  interest- 
ing drawing,  with  her  eyes  all  puckered  up.  ...  But  it's 
a  shame  on  a  day  like  this  to  be  out  of  temper  with 
anything.  Lord!  How  women  do  spoil  the  universe, 
to  be  sure!  Do  they  give  us  anything  to  justify  the 
mess  they  make  of  it?  ...  Women  and  shopkeepers. 
I  don't  see  why  one  should  have  any  mercy  on  either  of 
them.  I  have  no  compunction  in  stealing  anything  I 
want.  Shopkeepers  steal  from  the  public  all  the  little 
halfpennies  and  farthings  of  extra  profit  they  exact." 

He  led  Mendel  into  a  picture  shop  and  asked  for  a 
reproduction  of  a  picture  by  Van  Tromp,  and  when 
the  girl  retired  upstairs  to  ask  about  that  non-existent 
artist,  he  turned  over  the  albums  and  helped  himself 
to  half  a  dozen  reproductions,  rolled  them  up,  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket.  When  the  girl  came  down  and 
said  they  were  out  of  Van  Tromps,  he  said : — 

"I'm  sorry.     Very  sorry  to  trouble  you." 

When  they  were  out  of  the  shop  he  chuckled,  and 
was  as  elated  over  his  success  as  Mr.  Kuit  had  been 
over  his  exploits. 

"Oh!  I  should  be  an  artist  in  anything  I  did,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  wonder  thieves  can't  go  straight  once 


"GOOD-BYE"  263 


they  get  on  the  lay.     If  I  weren't  a  painter  I  should  be 
a  criminal." 

He  walked  with  Mendel  as  far  as  Gray's  Inn,  and 
there  left  him,  saying  he  had  another  picture-buying 
flat  to  go  and  see,  and  after  that  he  must  pay  a  visit 
to  Uncle  Cluny  and  keep  him  up  to  the  mark.  He  was  in 
fine  fettle,  and  went  off  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

Mendel  bought  some  flowers  on  the  way  home  be- 
cause he  wished  always  to  have  flowers,  even  if  she  were 
to  send  no  more. 

He  was  sure  of  himself  to-day.  He  was  in  love  and 
glad  to  be  in  love.  Surely  it  could  have  no  worse  suf- 
fering than  that  through  which  he  had  passed,  and 
if  it  did,  well,  so  much  the  worse  for  him.  ...  He  was 
glad  it  had  happened.  His  father  would  not  be  able  to 
sneer  at  him  any  more,  as  he  was  always  sneering  at  Issy 
and  Harry — Harry,  who  had  deserted  his  father  and 
mother  for  the  sweetbreads  of  Paris.  (Jacob  always 
called  sweetmeats  sweetbreads. )  He  had  a  bitter,  biting 
tongue,  had  Jacob,  and  the  habit  of  using  it  was  growing 
on  him.  Mendel  knew  that  he  had  deserved  many  of 
his  sneers,  but  now  they  could  touch  him  no  longer. 
His  life,  like  his  art,  now  contained  a  passion  as  strong 
as  any  Jacob  had  known  in  his  life,  and  stronger,  be- 
cause it  was  wedded  to  beauty,  to  which  Jacob  was  a 
stranger. 

He  was  able  to  work  again  at  his  picture  of  his  father 
and  mother.  He  could  make  something  of  it  now,  he 
knew,  because  he  could  understand  his  father  and  ap- 
preciate the  strength  in  him  which  had  kept  his  passion 
alive  through  poverty  and  a  life  of  constant  storms  and 
upheavals.  He  remembered  his  father  knocking  down 
the  schoolmaster,  and  the  soldier  in  the  inn  with  the 


264  MENDEL 


heavy  glass.  Oh  yes !  Jacob  was  a  strong  man,  and  he 
had  nearly  died  of  love  for  Golda,  the  beautiful. 

He  worked  away  with  an  extraordinary  zest,  and  he 
knew  that  it  was  good.  As  he  grew  tired  during  the 
afternoon  he  was  overcome  with  a  great  longing  for 
her  to  see  it,  just  to  see  it  and  to  say  she  liked  it.  It 
would  not  matter  much  if  she  did  not  understand  it,  so 
long  as  she  saw  it  and  liked  it. 

He  turned  to  the  roughly  sketched  portrait  of  her 
to  ask  her  if  she  liked  it,  and  as  he  did  so  the  door  opened 
and  she  came  in.  Her  arms  were  full  of  flowers,  so 
that  her  face  was  resting  in  them,  her  dear  face,  the 
sweetest  of  all  flowers. 

"You  said  .  .  .  you  must  see  me,  so  I  brought  you 
these  to  say  good-bye." 

"Do  come  in  and  see  my  picture.    It  is  nearly  finished." 

"Oh!     It  is  good,"  she  said  shyly. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  it.  I  wanted  you  to  like  it.  Do 
stay  a  little  and  talk." 

She  sat  down  and  looked  about  the  studio,  puckering 
up  her  eyebrows  nervously  and  making  her  eyes  very 
round  and  large. 

"You  never  told  me  how  old  you  are,"  he  said 
nervously. 

"I'm  nineteen." 

"I'm  twenty.  Just  twenty.  How  long  are  you  going 
away  for?" 

"I  don't  know.     Until  the  winter,  I  expect." 

"What  will  you  do  there  in  the  country?  It  is  im- 
portant that  you  should  tell  me,  because  I  must  know 
how  to  think  of  you.  What  shall  you  do?  Is  it  a  big 
house?  Are  you — are  you  rich?" 

"No.  It  is  not  a  very  big  house.  My  mother  is 
fairly  well  off,  but  I  have  four  brothers,  and  they  all 


"GOOD-BYE"  265 


have  to  go  to  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  .  .  .  There's 
a  good  garden,  and  I  shall  spend  a  lot  of  time  in  that, 
digging  and  looking  after  the  flowers.  And  I  shall  try 
and  do  some  work.  There's  a  big  barn  I  can  have  for  a 
studio." 

"A  big  barn.    Yes.    Are  your  brothers  nice  men?" 

"Two  of  them." 

"And  there's  a  river  and  a  common.  May  I  write 
to  you?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  then  she  said:— 

"No.     Please  don't." 

His  happiness  vanished.  It  was  as  though  a  hole 
had  opened  in  the  floor  and  swallowed  it  up. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.     "Why  not?" 

She  shrank  into  herself  for  a  moment,  but  shook  off 
her  cowardice  and  answered: — 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you." 

"You  said  you  loved  me.  You  can  do  what  you  like 
with  me!" 

"You're  so  different,"  she  said.    "Too  different/' 

"From  what?     From  whom?    Go  on,  go  on!" 

She  loved  his  violence  and  gained  courage  from  it. 

"You  mustn't  think  it  mean  of  me.  I  don't  care 
a  bit  what  people  say,  but  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you— in 
your  work,  I  mean.  It  isn't  all  that  I  think  and  mean, 
but  it  is  a  part  of  it,  a  little  part  of  it.  People  are 
furious  at  our  being  seen  together.  It  began  at  the 
picnic.  We  were  seen  walking  over  the  Heath.  Clowes 
told  me.  She  can't  bear  it.  She's  a  good  friend.  .  .  . 
It  hurt  me  when  she  told  me,  and  I  knew  that  I  must 
tell  you.  It  isn't  only  old  women.  It  is  all  the  important 
people,  who  can  hurt  your  work." 

"Nobody  can  hurt  my  work." 

"But  they  can.     They  are  saying  your  work  is  bad, 


266  MENDEL 


all  the  people  who  said  it  was  so  good  only  last  year, 
all  the  people  who  believed  in  you.  And  it's  all  through 
me.  It's  my  fault." 

She  began  to  weep  silently.  He  was  unmoved  by 
the  sight  of  it,  so  appalled  was  he  by  the  sudden  devasta- 
tion of  his  life.  Suffering  within  himself  he  knew, 
but  hostility  from  without  he  had  not  had  to  face.  .  .  . 
Many  little  slights  were  explained — men  who  had  given 
him  an  indifferent  nod,  men  who  had  apparently  not 
seen  him  in  the  street.  In  the  surprise  of  it  he  was  blind 
even  to  her.  It  was  like  a  sandstorm  covering  him  up, 
rilling  with  grit  every  little  chink  and  crevice  of  his 
being.  He  snorted  with  fury  and  contempt. 

He  shook  himself  free  of  the  oppression  of  it.  This 
was  nothing  to  do  with  her;  it  was  not  what  he  wanted 
from  her — the  gossip  and  tittle-tattle,  the  sweepings  of 
the  studios.  The  models  sickened  him  of  that.  ...  So 
it  was  his  turn  now.  Well,  other  men  had  survived  it. 

"That  isn't  why  you  want  to  say  good-bye." 

"No.  I'm  not  pleading-  to  you  to  let  me  off,  or  any- 
thing like  that.  I  believe  in  you  more  than  in  anybody 
else,  more  than  I  do  in  myself.  ...  I  don't  believe  in 
myself  much." 

It  had  all  seemed  clear  to  her  before  she  had  come. 
He  would  understand  how  wrong  and  twisted  the  whole 
thing  had  become.  They  would  suffer  together  and 
they  would  see  how  useless  such  suffering  was  in  a  world 
of  beauty  and  charm  and  youth,  and  they  would  part 
because  they  had  to  part.  He  would  understand,  even 
if  she  could  not  rightly  understand,  for  he  was  strong 
and  simple  and  direct,  and  free  of  the  soft  vanity  of 
youth. 

But  he  did  not  understand.  He  was  angry  and  domi- 
neering. 


"GOOD-BYE"  267 


"Why  do  you  say  all  this  ?"  he  said  heavily,  flounder- 
ing for  words.  "What  does  it  mean?  Nothing  at  all. 
You  belong  to  me.  You  gave  up  Mitchell  because  I 
said  you  must.  Have  you  given  up  Mitchell?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well  then.  Nothing  else  matters.  If  I  want 
a  thing  I  will  break  through  a  Chinese  wall  to  get  it. 
Nothing  can  stop  me,  because  when  I  want  a  thing  it  is 
mine  already.  I  want  it  because  it  is  mine  already." 

He  was  making  it  impossible  for  her — impossible  to 
go,  impossible  to  stay,  impossible  to  say  anything. 

Outside  in  the  street  the  heavy  drays  went  clattering 
by  on  the  stone  setts.  When  they  had  passed  there 
came  up  the  shrill  cries  of  children  playing  in  the  street, 
the  drone  of  a  Rabbi  taking  a  class  of  boys  in  Hebrew. 
On  the  hot  air  came  the  smell  of  the  street — a  smell  of 
women  and  babies  and  leather  and  kosher  meat. 

"I  know  the  way  of  women,"  he  said.  "My  mother 
has  been  my  friend  always.  But  I  do  not  know  your 
ways.  I  only  know  that  I  love  you.  You  are  mine 
as  that  picture  is  mine,  and  you  cannot  take  yourself 
from  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  take  myself  from  you,"  she  said, 
half  angry,  half  in  tears.  "I  want  to  make  you  under- 
stand me." 

"What  is  there  to  understand?  Do  I  understand  my 
pictures?"  he  cried.  "Do  you  want  no  mystery?  How 
can  there  be  life  without  mystery?  I  don't  expect  you 
to  understand.  I  only  want  you  to  be  honest  and  true 
to  me.  ...  I  conceal  nothing.  I  am  a  Jew.  I  live 
in  this  horrible  place.  My  life  is  as  horrible  as  this 
place.  You  know  all  that,  all  there  is  to  know,  and  you 
love  me.  You  cannot  alter  me.  You  cannot  change  my 
nature.  , 


268  MENDEL 


"Don't  say  any  more,"  she  said.  "It  only  becomes 
worse  with  talking." 

"What  becomes  worse?" 

She  could  not  answer  him.  She  could  not  say  what 
she  felt.  The  woods,  the  Heath,  and — this;  the  rattle 
and  smell  of  the  street,  the  dinginess  of  the  studio,  the 
dinginess  of  his  soul — the  dinginess  and  yet  the  fire  of 
it.  On  the  Heath  he  had  been  like  a  faun,  prick-eared 
and  shaggy,  but  wild  and  free  as  her  spirit  was  wild 
and  free.  Here  he  was  rough,  coarse,  harsh,  and  tyran- 
nical. She  could  feel  him  battering  at  her  with  his  mind, 
searching  her  out,  probing  into  her,  and  she  resented 
it  with  all  the  passion  of  her  modesty.  She  gathered 
up  all  her  forces  to  resist  him. 

"You  are  terrible!  Terrible!"  she  cried.  "Don't  you 
see  that  it  must  be  good-bye?" 

"I  say  it  must  not,"  he  shouted.  "I  say  it  is  non- 
sense to  talk  of  good-bye,  when  we  have  just  met,  when 
the  kiss  is  yet  warm  on  our  lips.  For  a  kiss  is  a  holy 
thing,  and  I  do  not  kiss  unless  it  is  holy.  I  say  it  is 
not  good-bye." 

"I  say  it  is  and  must  be,"  she  said.  "You  are  terrible. 
You  hurt  me  beyond  endurance." 

"And  why  should  you  not  be  hurt?  Am  I  to  have 
all  the  pain?  I  want  to  share  even  that  with  you." 

"It  is  impossible,"  she  said  dully,  unable  to  share,  or 
deal  with,  or  appreciate  the  violence  of  his  passion,  and 
falling  back  on  the  mulishness  which  had  been  developed 
in  her  through  her  tussles  with  her  brothers.  Through 
her  mind  shot  the  horrible  thought : — 

"We  are  quarrelling — already  quarrelling." 

To  her  he  seemed  to  be  dragging  her  down,  defiling 
her.  His  eyes  were  glaring  at  her  with  a  passion  that 
she  took  for  sensuality,  because  it  came  out  of  the  dingi- 


'GOOD-BYE"  269 


ness  of  his  soul.  And  he  was  stiffening-  into  an  iron  col- 
umn of  egoism,  on  which  she  knew  she  could  make  no 
impression.  She  knew,  too,  that  her  presence  was  ag- 
gravating the  stiffening  process.  .  .  .  She  felt  caught, 
trapped,  and  she  want'ed  to  get  away.  Love  must  be 
free— free  as  the  wind  on  the  heath,  as  the  blossom 
of  the  wild  cherry.  Love  must  have  its  blossoming 
time,  and  he  was  demanding  the  full  heat  of  the  sum- 
mer. .  .  .  She  must  get  away. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  took  her  hand  and  pulled  her  to  him. 

"No!  No!  No!"  she  cried.  "No!  Good-bye!  Good- 
bye!" 

She  turned  away  and  was  gone. 

Unable  to  contain  his  agony,  he  flung  himself  on  his 
bed  and  sobbed  out  his  grief. 

"She  is  mine!"  he  moaned.  "She  is  mine,  and  she 
cannot  take  herself  from  me." 

And  when  his  tears  were  shed  he  began  to  think  of 
the  other  women  who  had  come  to  him  without  love, 
so  easily,  so  gratefully,  some  of  them,  and  this  little 
girl  who  loved  him  could  tear  herself  away — at  a  fearful 
cost.  He  knew  that.  But  if  she  could  tear  herself 
away,  if  she  could  say  good-bye,  what  could  she  know 
of  love? 


CHAPTER    X 

PARIS 


MENDEL  was  able  to  finish  his  portrait  of  Jacob 
and  Golda,  but  only  at  the  cost  of  painful  and 
bitter  labour.  He  was  torn  two  ways :  longing  to  finish 
it,  yet  dreading  the  end  of  it,  for  he  could  not  see  be- 
yond it.  Every  picture  he  had  painted  had  brought  with 
it  the  certain  knowledge  that  it  would  lead  to  a  better, 
that  he  was  advancing  further  on  the  road  to  art.  But 
there  was  a  finality  about  this  picture.  It  was  an  end 
in  itself.  It  was  not  like  most  of  his  work,  one  of  a 
possible  dozen  or  more.  A  certain  stream  of  his  feeling 
ended  in  it  and  then  disappeared,  leaving  him  without 
guide  or  direction. 

Therefore,  when  the  picture  was  ended  he  found  him- 
self besottedly  and  uncontrollably  in  love  and  in  a  mad- 
deningly sensitive  condition,  so  that  any  sudden  glimpse 
of  beauty — the  stars  in  the  night  sky,  a  girl's  face  in 
the  train,  flowers  in  a  window-box — could  set  him  reel- 
ing. More  than  once  he  found  himself  clinging  to 
the  wall  or  a  railing,  emerging  with  happy  laughter  from 
a  momentary  lack  of  consciousness.  In  the  street  near 
his  home  he  found  a  lovely  little  girl,  of  the  same  type 
as  Sara,  but  more  beautiful.  Graceful  and  lively  she 
was,  fully  aware  of  her  vitality  and  charm,  and  she  used 
to  smile  at  him  when  he  went  to  meet  her  as  she  came 

270 


PARIS  2?1 

out  of  school,  or  stood  and  watched  her  playing  in  the 
street. 

At  last  he  asked  her  shyly  if  she  would  come  to  his 
studio  that  he  might  draw  her.  She  consented  and  came 
often.  She  would  chatter  away,  and,  studying  her,  he 
was  astonished  at  her  womanishness,  and  he  was  over- 
whelmed when  she  said  one  day: — 

"You  don't  want  to  draw  me.  You  only  want  to 
look  at  me." 

He  was  thrust  back  into  the  thoughts  he  had  been 
avoiding.  If  this  child  knew  already  so  frankly  why 
he  was  attracted  to  her,  why  could  not  that  other  ?  Why 
did  she  seem  to  insist  that  he  should  regard  her  with 
the  emotions  with  which  he  approached  a  work  of  art? 
A  work  of  art  could  yield  up  its  secret  to  the  emotions, 
but  she  could  only  deliver  hers  to  love  dwelling  not  in 
any  abstract  region,  but  here  on  earth,  in  the  life  of  the 
body.  .  .  .  He  often  thought  of  her  with  active  dislike, 
because  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  lacking  in  frankness. 
If  she  were  going  to  cause  so  much  suffering,  as  she 
must  have  known  she  would  with  her  good-bye,  then  she 
must  have  her  reasons  for  it.  What  did  she  mean  with 
her  neither  yes  nor  no?  With  women  there  should  be 
either  yes  or  no.  A  refusal  is  unpleasant,  but  it  could 
be  swallowed  down  with  other  ills ;  and  there  were  others. 
But  this  girl,  this  short-haired  Christian,  blocked  his  way, 
and  there  were  no  others  except  as  there  were  cabs  on 
the  street  and  meals  on  the  table. 

For  a  time  he  avoided  Logan  and  Oliver.  He  knew 
that  Logan  would  despise  him  for  his  weakness  in  set- 
ting his  heart  on  a  girl  who  ran  away  from  him,  for 
he  knew  and  admired  the  tremendous  force  with  which 
his  friend  had  hurled  himself  into  his  life  with  the  girl 
,of  the  station,  constantly  wooing  and  winning  her  afresh 


272  MENDEL 


and  urging  her  to  share  his  own  recklessness.  He  ad- 
mired, too,  Logan's  insistence  on  an  absolute  separation 
of  his  art  and  his  life  with  Oliver,  who  was  never  for 
one  moment  admitted  to  his  mind.  Rather  to  his  dismay, 
but  at  the  same  time  with  a  wild  rush  of  almost  lyrical 
impulse,  Mendel,  finding  himself  with  no  other  emotion 
than  that  of  being  in  love,  set  himself  to  paint  love.  He 
worked  with  an  amazing  ease,  painting  one  picture  one 
day  and  covering  it  with  another  the  next,  feeling  elatedly 
convinced  that  everything  he  did  was  beautiful,  yet  know- 
ing within  himself  that  he  was  in  a  bad  way. 

He  avoided  Logan,  but  Logan  needed  him,  and  came 
to  tell  him  so. 

"It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  shut  yourself  up,"  he 
said,  "but  I  can't  live  without  you.  You  know  what 
Oliver  is  to  me,  but  it  is  not  enough.  The  more  satis- 
fying she  is  on  one  plane,  the  more  I  need  on  the  other 
the  satisfaction  that  she  cannot  give  me.  Women  can't 
do  it.  They  simply  can't,  and  it  is  no  good  trying.  If 
you  try,  it  means  making  a  mess  of  both  love  and  art. 
She  is  jealous?  Very  well.  Let  her  be  jealous.  She  en- 
joys it,  and  it  helps  her  to  understand  a  man's  passion." 

"I  can't  stand  it  when  you  talk  in  that  cold-blooded 
way  about  women." 

"I'm  not  cold-blooded,"  said  Logan,  astonished  at  the 
adjective. 

"I  sometimes  think  you  are,  but  I  am  apt  to  think 
that  of  all  English  people,"  replied  Mendel,  wondering 
within  himself  if  that  did  not  explain  Morrison.  "Yes. 
I  often  wonder  what  you  would  be  like  if  you  were  in 
an  office,  wearing  a  bowler  hat,  and  going  to  and  fro 
by  the  morning  and  evening  train." 

"Why  think  about  the  impossible?"  laughed  Logan. 
"Anyhow,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  shut  yourself  up. 


PARIS 


273 


I  want  to  go  to  Paris,  and  I  can't  face  three  weeks 
alone  with  Oliver.  Twenty-one  days,  sixty-three  meals. 
No.  It  can't  be  done." 

"Yes,  I'll  go  to  Paris,"  thought  Mendel.  "I  will  go 
to  Paris  and  I  will  forget." 

"You  must  come,"  urged  Logan.  "Madame  at  the 
Pot-au-Feu  has  given  me  the  name  of  a  hotel  kept  by 
her  sister-in-law.  Very  cheap.  Bed  and  breakfast,  and, 
of  course,  you  feed  in  restaurants.  .  .  .  You  want  dig- 
ging out  of  your  hole.  I  don't  know  why,  but  you  seem 
to  have  insisted  more  on  being  Jewish  lately.  It  is  much 
more  important  for  you  to  be  an  artist  and  a  man.  I 
regard  you  as  a  sacred  trust.  I  do  really.  You  are  the 
only  man  in  England  for  whom  I  have  any  respect,  and 
I  need  you  to  keep  me  decent."  He  added :  "I  need  you 
to  keep  me  alive,  for,  without  you,  Oliver  would  gobble 
me  up  in  a  month." 

He  seemed  to  be  joking,  but  Mendel  could  not  help 
feeling  that  he  was  at  heart  serious,  and  he  had  the 
unpleasant  sinking  of  disgust  which  sometimes  seized 
him  when  he  thought  of  Logan  and  Oliver  together. 
He  could  not  account  for  it,  and  the  sensation  gave  him 
a  sickly  pleasure  which  made  him  weaker  with  Logan 
than  with  anybody  else.  Besides,  Logan  often  bewildered 
him,  and  he  could  not  tolerate  his  inability  to  &rasp 
ideas  except  through  a  mad  rush  of  feeling,  and  he 
hated  the  fact  that  while  Logan's  mind  seemed  to  move 
steadily  on,  his  own  crumbled  to  pieces  just  at  the  mo- 
ment when  it  was  on  the  point  of  absorbing  an  idea. 

For  these  reasons  he  consented  to  go  to  Paris.  The 
three  weeks  should  consolidate  or  destroy  a  friendship 
which  had  remained  for  him  distressingly  inchoate.  Deep 
in  his  heart  he  hoped  that  it  would  become  definite  enough 
and  strong  enough  to  drive  out  his  indeterminate  love. 


274  MENDEL 


To  be  in  love  without  enjoying  love  was  in  his  eyes  a 
fatuous  condition,  undignified,  vague,  a  kind  of 
cuckoldry. 

Oliver  was  aflame  with  excitement  over  the  trip  to 
Paris.  She  spoke  of  it  with  an  almost  religious  exalta- 
tion. As  usual,  her  emotion  was  entirely  uncontrolled, 
became  a  physical  tremulation,  and  she  reminded  Men- 
del of  a  wobbling  blanc-mange. 

The  plan  was  to  have  a  fortnight  in  Paris  and  a  week 
at  Boulogne,  for  bathing  and  gambling  at  the  Casino. 

No  sooner  had  he  left  London  than  Mendel  felt  his 
cares  and  anxieties  fall  away  from  him,  and  he  began 
to  wish  he  had  brought  Jessie  Petrie.  He  proposed 
to  wire  for  her  from  Folkestone,  but  Logan  pointed  out 
that  Oliver  could  not  stand  women  and  was  jealous  of 
them. 

"She'd  say  Jessie  was  making  eyes  at  me,"  he  said. 
"And  if  she  made  eyes  at  you  she'd  be  almost  as  bad." 

In  that  Mendel  could  sympathise  with  Oliver.  He 
was  himself  often  suddenly,  unreasonably,  and  violently 
jealous  of  other  men  over  women  for  whom  he  did 
not  care  a  fig. 

He  set  himself  to  be  nice  to  Oliver,  and  she  in  her 
holiday  mood  responded,  so  that  on  the  boat  and  in 
the  Paris  train  Logan  was  sunk  in  a  gloomy  silence, 
and  in  the  hotel  at  night,  in  the  next  room,  Mendel  could 
hear  him  storming  at  her,  refusing  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  her,  threatening  to  go  home  next  day  unless 
she  promised  to  keep  her  claws,  as  he  said,  off  Kiihler. 
She  promised,  and  they  embarked  further  upon  their 
perilous  voyage  in  search  of  an  unattainable  land  of 
satiety. 


PARIS  275 

Their  hotel  was  near  the  Montparnasse  station,  and 
they  discovered  a  cafe  in  the  Boulevard  Raspail  which 
was  frequented  by  artists  and  models,  one  or  two  of 
whom  Mendel  recognised  as  former  habitues  of  the 
Paris  Cafe.  They  were  soon  drawn  into  the  artist  world, 
and  except  that  he  went  to  the  Louvre  instead  of  to  the 
National  Gallery  for  peace  and  refreshment,  Mendel 
often  thought  he  might  just  as  well  be  in  London.  There 
was  the  same  feverish  talk,  the  same  abuse  of  successful 
artists,  the  same  depreciation  of  old  masters,  but  there 
was  more  body  to  the  talk,  and  sometimes  a  Frenchman, 
finding1  speech  useless  with  this  shy,  good-looking  Jew, 
would  make  himself  clear  with  what  English  he  could 
muster  and  a  rapid,  skilful  drawing.  For  the  most  part, 
however,  he  had  to  rely  on  Logan's  paraphrase,  until 
one  day  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  he  ran  into 
that  Thompson,  lamented  by  Jessie  Petrie,  the  painter 
of  stripes  and  triangles. 

Thompson  was  a  little  senior  to  Mendel  at  the  Det- 
mold,  had  hardly  spoken  to  him  in  the  old  days,  but 
was  now  delighted  to  meet  a  familiar  London  face. 

"I  am  glad !"  he  said.  "Come  and  see  my  place.  How 
are  they  all  in  London — poor  old  Calthrop  and  poor 
old  Froitzheim?  I  should  have  killed  myself  if  I'd 
stayed  in  London;  nothing  but  talk  and  women,  with 
work  left  to  find  its  way  in  where  it  can.  Here  work 
comes  first.  I  suppose  they  haven't  even  heard  of  Van 
Gogh  in  London?" 

Mendel  had  to  confess  that  he  had  never  heard  of 
Van  Gogh. 

"A  Dutchman,"  explained  Thompson,  "and  he  cut 
off  his  ear  and  sent  it  to  Gauguin.  Ever  heard  of  Gau- 
guin?" 


276  MENDEL 


"No.  But  a  man  doesn't  make  himself  a  great  artist 
by  cutting  off  his  ear." 

"Van  Gogh  was  a  great  artist  before  that.  He  killed 
himself:  shot  himself  in  his  bed,  and  the  doctor  found 
him  in  bed  smoking  a  pipe.  He  was  quite  happy,  for 
he  had  done  all  he  could." 

That  sounded  more  like  it  to  Mendel,  more  like  the 
deed  of  a  warrior  of  the  spirit. 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Thompson,  and  they  went  round 
the  galleries. 

Mendel's  head  was  nearly  bursting  when  he  came  out. 
The  riotous  colour,  the  apparent  neglect  of  drawing 
and  abuse  of  form,  the  entire  absence  of  tone  and  at- 
mosphere, shocked  him.  He  resented  the  wrench  given 
to  all  his  training,  and  he  took  Thompson  to  the  Louvre 
to  go  back  to  Cranach  and  the  early  Italians.  Thomp- 
son would  not  hear  of  them,  and  insisted  on  his  spend- 
ing over  an  hour  with  Poussin. 

"I  can  see  nothing  in  them.  Good  painting,  good 
drawing,  but  dull,  so  dull !  The  flat,  papery  figures  mean 
nothing." 

"They  mean  everything  to  the  picture,"  said  Thomp- 
son, "and  you  have  no  right  to  go  outside  the  picture. 
Poussin  kept  to  his  picture,  and  so  must  you  if  you  are 
to  understand  him." 

"I  can  see  all  that,"  said  Mendel,  "but  he  is  dull.  I 
can't  help  it,  he  bores  me." 

"It  is  pure  art." 

"Then  I  like  it  impure." 

"You  don't  really.  But  you  are  all  like  that  when 
you  first  come  from  London.  You  think  that  because 
a  thing  is  different  it  must  be  wrong.  Have  you  come 
over  alone?" 

"No.     I'm  with  a  man  called  Logan  and  his  girl. 


PARIS 


277 


He  is  a  great  painter,  or  he  will  be  one.     Anyhow,  he 
is  alive  and  has  ideas." 

"Does  he  know  about  Van  Gogh?" 

"No;  but  he  says  the  next  great  painter  must  come 
from  England." 

"Pooh !  Whistler !"  said  Thompson  in  a  tone  of  vast 
superiority.  "Nous  sommes  bien  loin  de  c.a." 

"Please  don't  talk  French,"  said  Mendel.  "I  don't 
understand  a  word." 

"Whistler  had  good  ideas,"  continued  Thompson.  "It 
is  a  pity  he  was  not  a  better  artist." 

Mendel  was  beginning  to  feel  bored.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand this  new  painting  for  painting's  sake,  and  did 
not  want  to  understand  it.  To  change  the  subject  he 
said : — 

"I  nearly  brought  Jessie  Petrie  with  me." 

"I  wish  you  had.  She  is  a  dear  little  girl,  and  I  nearly 
sent  for  her  the  other  day,  but  I've  no  use  for  the  model 
now.  It  is  perfectly  futile  trying  to  cram  a  living  figure 
into  a  modern  picture." 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  you  can  paint  it." 

"Really,"  said  Thompson,  "I  don't  see  what  you  have 
come  to  Paris  for,  if  you  haven't  come  to  learn  some- 
thing about  painting.  One  wouldn't  expect  you  to  un- 
derstand Picasso  straight  off,  but  any  one  who^has 
handled  paint  ought  to  be  able  to  grasp  Van  Gogh. ' 

"He  is  trying  for  the  impossible,"  grunted  Mende 
"The  important  thing  in  art  is  art.    I've  come  to  Pans 
to  have  a  good  time." 

"Oh!  very  well,"  said  Thompson.  ^  "Why  didn  t  yot 
say  so  before?  I'll  show  you  round." 

Mendel  took  Thompson  round  to  his  hotel  and  up  to 
Logan's  room,  where,  entering  without  knocking,  they 


278  MENDEL 


found  Logan  kneeling  on  the  floor  with  Oliver  in  a 
swoon  in  his  arms.  He  had  opened  her  blouse  at  the 
neck  and  unlaced  her  corsage. 

Mendel  thought  Oliver  looked  as  though  she  was  going 
to  die,  and  his  first  idea  was  to  run  for  the  doctor. 

"She'll  come  round,"  said  Logan.  "It's  my  fault. 
I  was  brutal  to  her.  .  .  ."  He  nodded  to  Thompson. 
"How  do  you  do?"  and  he  covered  up  Oliver's  large 
bosom. 

She  came  to  in  a  few  moments,  opened  her  eyes  slowly, 
rolled  them  round,  and  came  back  to  Logan,  on  whom 
she  fixed  a  gaze  of  devouring  love.  She  put  up  her 
arms  and  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  his  lips. 

Mendel  drew  Thompson  out  into  the  corridor. 

"She  was  shamming,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Thompson.  "What  has 
happened  ?  Does  he  knock  her  about  ?•" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  They've  not  been  together  very- 
long.  They  can't  settle  down." 

"She's  a  fine  woman,"  said  Thompson. 

They  were  called  in  again  and  found  Oliver  sitting 
up  on  the  bed  eating  chocolates.  She  greeted  Thomp- 
son with  a  queenly  gesture,  and  clapped  her  hands  when 
Mendel  told  her  they  were  going  out  to  see  the  sights. 

"I'm  sick  of  artists,"  she  said.  "I  have  quite  enough 
of  them  in  London.  I  wish  to  God  you  weren't  an  artist, 
Logan.  You'd  be  quite  a  nice  man  if  you  worked  for 
your  living." 

"Don't  talk  rubbish,"  mumbled  Logan,  who  was  sub- 
dued and  curiously  ashamed  of  himself.  "If  I  were 
like  that  I  should  have  a  little  dried-up  wife  and  an 
enormous  family,  and  you  wouldn't  have  a  look  in." 

"And  a  good  job  too!"  cried  Oliver,  in  her  most  pro- 


PARIS 


279 


yoking  tone.  "A  good  job  too !  I'd  find  some  one  who 
had  a  respect  for  me." 

"D'you  find  Paris  a  good  place  to  work  in?"  Logan 
turned  to  Thompson. 

"I  never  knew  the  meaning  of  work  till  I  came  here. 
Ever  heard  of  Rousseau?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Logan. 

"I  don't  mean  the  writer,  I  mean  .  .  ." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Logan  nonchalantly.  He  could 
never  admit  ignorance  of  anything. 

"A  great  painter,"  cried  Thompson  eagerly.  "A  very 
great  painter.  I  tell  you  he  brought  Impressionism  up 
sharp.  They  had  overshot  the  mark,  you  know.  Manet, 
Monet:  they  had  overshot  the  mark." 

Oliver  began  to  scream  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

"Shut  up!"  said  Logan.    "You'll  have  us  turned  out." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  care.  I  can't 
stand  all  this  talk  about  painting." 

"What  do  you  want  us  to  talk  about?"  said  Mendel, 
tingling  with  exasperation.  "Love?  Three  men  and 
one  woman  can't  talk  about  love." 

"Well,  I  didn't  come  to  Paris  to  sit  in  a  dirty  bed- 
room talking  about  pictures.  I  want  to  go  out  to  see 
the  streets  and  the  shops  and  the  funny  people." 

"For  God's  sake  take  us  somewhere,"  said  Logan. 

Thompson,  having  ascertained  that  they  had  plenty 
of  money,  took  them  to  Enghien  by  the  river.  Oliver  was 
happy  at  once.  She  wanted  to  be  amused  and  to  be 
looked  at,  and  as  she  was  bouncing  and  rowdy  she  had 
her  desire. 

She  made  Logan  play  for  her  at  the  little  horses, 
but,  as  she  did  not  win,  she  was  soon  bored  with  it. 
Logan  was  bitten  and  could  not  tear  himself  away. 


280  MENDEL 


Mendel  stayed  with  him  and  she  disappeared  with 
Thompson. 

"I'm  bound  to  win  if  I  go  on,"  said  Logan.  "There's 
a  law  of  chances,  you  know,  and  I've  always  been  lucky 
at  these  things.  ...  It  is  so  exciting,  too." 

He  changed  note  after  note  into  five-franc  pieces, 
lost  them  all,  and  at  last  began  to  win  a  little;  won, 
lost,  won. 

Mendel  dragged  him  away  from  the  table,  pro- 
testing : — 

"Come  along.  I  have  had  enough.  Do  come  along. 
We  haven't  had  a  chance  to  talk  for  days,  and  I  hate 
these  rooms  with  all  the  flashy,  noisy  people.  .  .  .  We 
can  come  back  here  and  find  the  others.  Let  us  go 
and  find  some  fun  that  we  can  share,  for  this  is  deadly 
dull  for  me.  Besides,  we  don't  want  to  be  stranded  with- 
out money." 

"But  I'm  winning.     My  luck  is  in." 

He  rushed  back  to  the  tables  and  lost — twice,  upon 
which  he  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  they 
went  out  into  the  air  and  sat  on  a  terrace  by  the  lake. 
Mendel  produced  cigarettes  and  they  smoked  in  silence 
for  some  time.  Logan  looked  pale  and  worn  and  was 
obviously  smouldering  with  excitement. 

"How  amazingly  different  everything  looks  here,"  he 
said.  "In  London  I  always  feel  as  though  I  had  a  thumb 
pressing  into  my  brain.  Everybody  seems  indifferent  and 
hostile  and  everything  I  do  is  incongruous.  I  feel 
almost  happy  here.  I  should  like  to  stay  here.  I  told 
her  so  and  she  began  to  cry.  I  knocked  her  down.  I 
couldn't  stand  her  crying  any  more.  I  knocked  her 
down  and  she  fainted." 

"She  was  shamming,"  thought  Mendel,  seeing  vividly 


PARIS  281 

the  scene  in  the  bedroom.  "He  did  not  hurt  her.  She 
was  shamming." 

"I  feel  a  brute,"  said  Logan,  "and  yet  I'm  glad.  I'm 
tremendously  glad.  I  want  to  sing.  I  want  to  get 
drunk.  I'm  tremendously  glad.  It  has  settled  some- 
thing. I'm  her  master.  She  was  getting  on  my  nerves. 
She  won't  do  that  any  more.  Ha !  Ha !" 

"Why  don't  you  get  rid  of  her?"  asked  Mendel. 
"Leave  her  here.  Come  back  with  me  to-morrow." 

"Don't  be  a  silly  child,"  said  Logan  patronisingly. 
"I  love  her.  I  couldn't  live  without  her  now,  not  for 
a  single  day.  I  could  no  more  do  without  her  than  I 
could  do  without  the  clothes  on  my  back.  I  tell  you 
she's  an  inspiration.  If  she  left  me  I  should  lay  down 
my  brush  for  ever.  She's  a  religion — all  the  religion 
I've  got." 

"I  can't  imagine  stopping  my  work  for  any  woman," 
said  Mendel. 

"Ah!  that's  because  you  don't  know  what  a  woman 
can  mean.  You  can't  know  while  you  are  young." 

Mendel's  nerves  had  been  throbbing  in  sympathy  with 
his  friend,  but  suddenly  all  that  place  was  filled  with  a 
soft,  clear  light  and  a  bright  music,  the  colour  and  the 
scent  of  flowers,  the  soft  murmur  of  flowing  water,  the 
whisper  of  the  wind  in  leafy  trees,  and  his  heart  ached 
and  grew  big  and  seemed  to  burst  into  a  thousand,  thou- 
sand rivulets  of  love,  searching  out  every  corner  of  his 
senses,  cleansing  his  eyes,  sharpening  his  hearing,  refining 
every  sense,  so  that  the  scene  before  him — the  white  ta- 
bles, the  white-aproned  waiters,  the  green  trees,  the  soft 
evening  sky,  the  softer  reflection  of  it  in  the  water— was 
exquisite  and  magical  and  full  of  a  mysterious  power 
that  permeated  even  Logan's  brutal  revelation  and  made 
it  worthy  of  beauty.  .  .  .  And  this  mysterious  power  he 


282  MENDEL 


knew  was  love,  and  she,  the  girl  for  whom  it  had  arisen 
from  the  depths,  was  far  away  in  England,  thinking 
of  him,  perhaps,  regretting  him,  perhaps,  but  knowing 
nothing  of  the  beauty  she  had  denied.  .  .  . 

Mendel  was  astonished  to  find  tears  in  his  eyes,  trem- 
bling on  his  lashes,  trickling  down  his  cheeks. 

"What  a  baby  you  are !"  said  Logan.  "You  can't  have 
me  all  to  yourself." 

His  divination  was  true.  Lacking  its  true  object,  Men- 
del's love  had  concentrated  upon  his  friend,  with  whom 
he  longed  to  walk  freely  in  the  enchanted  world  of  art, 
to  be  as  David  and  Jonathan.  Indeed,  Logan's  state  of 
torment  was  to  him  as  a  wound  got  in  battle,  over  which 
he  gave  himself  up  to  lamentation,  so  single  and  deep 
and  pure  that  it  obscured  even  the  impulse  of  his  love. 
He  longed  to  rid  his  friend  of  this  devouring  passion 
that  was  consuming  him  and  thrusting  in  upon  his  en- 
ergy, but  because  his  friend  called  it  love,  he  respected 
it  and  bore  with  it. 

"How  good  it  is,  this  life  out  of  doors!"  exclaimed 
Logan,  lolling  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mendel.  "I  think  it  is  too 
deliberate,  too  organised.  I  prefer  London  streets. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  me  to  compare  with 
London  streets.  Nature  is  too  beautiful.  A  tree  in  blos- 
som, a  garden  full  of  flowers,  a  round  hill  with  the 
shadow  of  the  clouds  over  them,  move  me  too  much. 
Left  alone  with  them  I  should  go  mad.  I  must  have 
human  nature  if  I  am  to  live  and  work.  I  only  want  na- 
ture, just  as  I  only  want  God,  through  human  nature." 

"By  Jove !  you  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  sometimes,  my 
boy.  That  is  true  for  all  of  us.  It  is  what  I  meant  when 
I  said  that  Oliver  was  a  religion  to  me." 

"I  don't  mean  women  or  individuals,"  protested  Men- 


PARIS  283 

del.  "I  mean  human  nature  in  the  lump.  It  may  be 
very  poor  stuff,  stupid  and  foolish  and  vulgar,  but  it  is 
all  we've  got,  and  one  lives  in  it  and  through  it." 

"That  is  all  very  well  while  you  are  young,"  said  Lo- 
gan, "but  you  have  to  individualise  it  when  you  are  older. 
One  person  becomes  a  point  of  contact.  You  can't  just 
float  through  humanity  like  an  apparition." 

Mendel  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  argument,  though 
not  his  confidence  in  its  truth. 

"That  is  not  what  I  meant,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't 
see  how  a  person  could  be  just  a  point  of  contact." 

"All  I  know  is  that  Oliver  is  such  a  point  of  contact 
to  me,  and  I  know  that  unless  art  is  inspired  with  some 
such  feeling  as  you  have  described,  all  the  technical  skill 
and  all  the  deft  trickery  in  the  world  won't  make  it 
more  than  a  sop  for  fools  or  an  interesting  survival  of 
medievalism.  That  is  why  I  think  you  are  going  to 
be  so  valuable.  You  have  so  little  to  unlearn.  You  have 
only  to  shake  off  the  most  antiquated  religion  in  the  world 
and  you  can  look  at  life  and  human  nature  without  preju- 
dice, while  I  have  constantly  to  be  uprooting  all  sorts 
of  prejudices  in  favour  of  certain  ways  of  living,  morally 
and  socially." 

Mendel  was  beginning  to  feel  comfortable  and  easy, 
for  while  his  mind  worked  furiously  he  could  rarely -ex- 
press what  he  thought,  and  Logan  in  his  talk  often  came 
near  enough  to  it  to  afford  him  some  relief  and  to  urge 
him  on  to  renewed  digging  in  the  recesses  of  his  mind. 
It  was  a  vast  comfort  to  him  to  find  that  there  were  other 
vital  thoughts  besides  that  of  Morrison,  and  that  for 
ecstasy  he  was  not  entirely  dependent  upon  her.  Warmed 
up  by  his  confidence  in  Logan,  he  resolved  to  tell  him 
about  the  girl  and  the  vast  change  she  had  wrought  in 
his  life. 


284  MENDEL 


"I  used  to  think,"  he  said,  "that  if  I  stayed  among 
/  my  own  people  I  could  work  my  way  through  the  pov- 
erty and  the  dirt  and  the  Jewishness  of  it  all  to  art. 
When  she  came  I  knew  that  it  was  impossible.  She  had 
something  that  I  needed,  something  that  the  Jews  do  not 
know,  or  never  have  known.  It  is  not  my  poverty  that 
denies  it  to  me,  for  if  the  poor  Jews  do  not  know  a  good 
thing,  the  rich  Jews  certainly  do  not,  for  the  rich  Jews 
are  rubbish  who  stroke  the  Christians  with  one  hand 
and  rob  them  with  the  other.  It  is  something  that  she 
knows  almost  without  knowing  it  herself." 

Logan  smiled. 

"I  am  not  a  fool  about  her,"  cried  Mendel.  "She  is 
not  particularly  beautiful  to  me.  There  is  only  one 
line  in  her  face  that  I  think  beautiful,  from  the  cheek- 
bone to  the  jaw.  I  am  not  a  fool  about  her,  but  I  had 
almost  given  the  Christian  world  up  in  despair.  It 
seemed  to  me  so  bad,  so  inhuman,  so  hollow,  so  full  of 
plump,  respectable  thieves.  The  simple  thieves  and  bul- 
lies of  my  boyhood  seemed  to  me  infinitely  preferable. 
And  I  had  met  some  of  the  most  important  people  in  the 
Christian  world:  all  empty  and  callous  and  lascivious. 
And  the  unimportant  people  were  good  enough,  but  dull, 
so  dull.  .  .  .  Then  comes  this  little  girl.  She  is  like 
Cranach's  Eve  among  monkeys.  She  becomes  at  once  to 
me  what  Cranach's  wife  must  have  been  to  him.  He 
painted  her  as  child,  girl,  and  woman.  The  chattering 
apes  matter  to  me  no  more.  The  Christian  world  is  no 
longer  empty.  It  is  still  lascivious  and  greedy,  soft  and 
ill-conditioned,  puffy  and  stale,  but  it  is  suddenly  full  of 
meaning,  of  beauty,  of  a  joy  which,  because  I  am  a  Jew, 
I  cannot  understand." 

"Give  it  up,"  growled  Logan;  "give  it  up.  Paint  her 
portrait  and  let  her  go.  You  are  a  born  painter.  To  a 


PARIS  285 

painter  women  are  either  paintable  or  nothing1.    For 
God's  sake  don't  go  losing  yourself  in  philosophy." 

"It  is  not  philosophy !"  cried  Mendel  indignantly.  "It 
is  what  I  feel." 

"It  will  probably  end  in  a  damned  good  picture,"  re- 
torted Logan.  "Why  not  be  content  with  that?" 

"Because  it  will  not  answer  what  I  want  to  know,  and  ,  / 
because  I  feel  that  there  is  something  in  the  Jews,  the  real 
Jews,  that  she  does  not  understand  either.  And  she  is 
not  a  fool.  She  has  a  mind.  She  has  a  deep  character. 
She  is  strong,  and  she  can  get  the  better  of  me.  She 
is  secret  and  she  is  cruel." 

Logan  gave  his  fat  chuckle. 

"She  is  just  an  English  girl  with  all  the  raw  feeling 
bred  out  of  her.  She  is  true  to  type :  impulsive  without 
being  sensual,  kind  without  being  affectionate;  and  she 
would  let  you  or  any  man  go  to  hell  rather  than  give  up 
anything  she  has  been  brought  up  to  believe  in  or  admit 
to  her  life  anything  that  was  strange,  unfamiliar,  and  not 
good  form,  like  yourself.  .  .  .  Give  it  up,  give  it  up. 
You  are  only  taking  it  seriously  because  you  have  been 
irresistible  so  far  and  it  is  the  first  setback  you  have 
received." 

"I  will  not  give  it  up,"  said  Mendel,  setting  his  teeth. 
Then  he  laughed  because  the  lights  had  gone  up  and  the 
scene  was  gay  and  amusing,  and  he  wanted  to  plunge 
into  the  merry  crowd  of  Parisians  and  pleasure-seekers, 
to  move  among  them  and  to  come  in  contact  with  the 
women,  to  watch  the  men  strutting  to  please  them,  to  de- 
light in  the  procession  of  excited  faces,  to  taste  the  fla- 
vour of  humanity  which  is  always  and  everywhere  the 
same,  rich,  astonishing,  comforting,  satisfying  in  its  va- 
riety. 

Oliver  and  Thompson  returned  with  their  hands  full 


286  MENDEL 


of  trinkets,  toys,  and  pretty  paper  decorations  which 
they  had  bought  or  won  at  games  of  chance  and  skill. 
She  sat  on  Logan's  knee  and  insisted  on  wreathing  him 
with  paper  streamers,  which  he  removed  as  fast  as  she 
placed  them  on  his  head. 

"Do!  do!"  she  cried.  "Do  let  go  for  once  and  let  us 
all  be  gay.  Oh !  I  do  love  this  place,  with  the  band  play- 
ing, and  the  lights  in  the  water,  and  the  wonderful  deep 
blue  sky.  Why  don't  we  have  a  sky  like  that  in  Lon- 
don? Do  let  us  come  here  every  year  for  the  summer. 
Thompson  says  painters  have  to  come  to  Paris  if  they 
want  to  be  any  good." 

"I've  been  telling  her  about  Van  Gogh,"  said  Thomp- 
son. 

"So  that's  what's  gone  to  your  head!"  growled  Logan, 
patting  her  cheek.  "He's  been  talking  to  you  about  paint- 
ing, has  he?" 

"Yes.  He's  a  nice  man,  and  doesn't  treat  me  as  if  I 
was  a  perfect  fool." 

She  darted  a  mischievous  glance  at  Mendel,  who 
started  under  it  as  though  he  had  been  stung.  He  was 
horrified  at  the  depth  of  his  dislike  of  her,  and  he  re- 
membered with  disgust  her  full,  coarse  bosom  exposed  as 
she  lay  in  her  calculated  swoon.  .  .  .  How  good  it  had 
been  while  she  was  gone  with  that  fool  Thompson,  who 
suited  her  so  perfectly,  that  chattering  ape,  with  his  talk 
of  Van  Gogh  and  Gauguin  and  "abstract  art,"  who  stood 
now  coveting  her  with  shining  eyes  and  fatuously  smiling 
lips. 

"I'm  not  good  enough  for  some  people,"  she  said. 
"When  I  come  into  the  room  there  is  silence." 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  said  Logan.  "Let's  go  and  have  din- 
ner and  get  back  to  Paris.  I'm  sick  of  this  cardboard 
place,  where  there  is  nothing  but  pleasure." 


PARIS 


287 


They  had  an  excellent  dinner,  during  which  Oliver 
never  stopped  chattering  and  Mendel  never  once  opened 
his  lips.  His  thoughts  were  away  in  England,  in  his 
studio  with  his  work,  and  in  the  country  with  Morrison, 
and  he  struggled  to  bring  them  together  in  his  mind. 
How  could  Logan  love  Oliver  and  keep  her  apart  from 
his  work?  Two  such  passions  must  infallibly  seek  each 
other  out  and  come  to  grips.  They  must  come  together 
or  be  flung  violently  apart.  .  .  .  Passions  were  to  him 
as  real  as  persons ;  they  had  individualities,  needs,  desires ; 
they  were  entities  insisting  upon  their  right  to  existence ; 
they  must  express  themselves,  must  make  their  impres- 
sion upon  the  circumambient  world. 

He  became  critical  of  Logan,  though  he  hated  to  be  so. 
Logan  stood  to  him  for  adventure  and  freedom,  inde- 
pendence and  courage.  It  was  incomprehensible  to  him 
that  Logan  should  take  Oliver  seriously.  She  was  the 
woman  for  a  holiday,  for  a  wild  outburst  of  lawlessness, 
not  for  the  morning  and  the  evening  and  the  day  be- 
tween. 

"Oh,  do  cheer  up,  Kiihler!  You  are  like  a  death's- 
head  at  a  feast." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  piercing  glance  which  silenced 
her.  No:  she  was  no  holiday  woman.  She  was  the 
woman  for  a  drab,  drudging  life,  with  no  other  colour  or 
joy  in  it  than  her  own  animal  warmth.  She  was  like 
Rosa,  made  for  just  such  a  dreary,  simple,  devoted  fool 
as  Issy.  What  could  she  do  with  a  strong  passion? 
She  could  only  absorb  it  like  a  sponge,  and  nothing  could 
kindle  her.  Just  a  drab ;  just  a  sponge. 

Thinking  so,  his  dislike  of  her  grew  into  a  hatred  so 
passionate  that  he  desired  to  know  more  of  her,  to  watch 
her,  to  beget  a  clear  idea  of  her.  He  went  and  sat  by 


288  MENDEL 


her  side  and  teased  her,  while  she  teased  him  and  told 
him  he  was  the  prettiest  boy  she  had  ever  seen. 

"That  night  in  the  Tube  I  thought  you  were  the  pret- 
tiest boy  I  ever  saw,  and  I  was  quite  disappointed  when 
Logan  came  to  speak  to  me  instead  of  you." 

"I  would  never  have  taken  you  from  the  shop,"  he 
said.  "I  would  have  taken  you  to  my  studio,  and  perhaps 
I  would  have  painted  you,  but  I  would  have  sent  you  back 
to  the  shop." 

"I  wouldn't  have  gone,  so  there!"  she  said.  "What 
would  you  have  done  then?" 

"I  should  have  turned  you  out." 

"Oh !  Would  you  ?  Filthy  brute !  If  I'm  good  enough 
for  one  thing  I'm  good  enough  for  another.  Do  you 
hear  that,  Logan?  He  would  have  turned  me  out!" 

"You  leave  Kiihler  alone,"  said  Logan.  "You'll  never 
understand  him,  if  you  try  for  a  thousand  years." 

"Turned  me  out?"  muttered  Oliver.  "Heuh!  I  like 
that.  He'd  turn  me  out  and  get  another  girl  in !  I'll  not 
have  any  of  those  tricks  from  you,  Logan." 

"You  can  talk  about  them  when  I  begin  them,"  he  re- 
plied. 

She  turned  from  Mendel  to  Thompson  and  soon  had 
him  soft  in  her  snares. 

"She  would  like  to  do  that  with  me,"  thought  Mendel, 
"and  she  hates  me  because  she  knows  she  cannot." 

They  returned  to  Paris  by  bus  all  sleepy  and  a  little 
drunk.  Oliver  leaned  her  head  on  Logan's  shoulder  and 
dozed,  smiling  to  herself,  while  Thompson,  sitting  by  her 
side,  fingered  her  sleeve. 

They  were  carried  far  beyond  the  point  where  they 
should  have  descended,  and  finding  themselves  on  the 


PARIS  289 

boulevards,  they  woke  up  to  the  liveliness  of  the  Pa- 
risian night,  and  Oliver  refused  to  go  home. 

Thompson  suggested  the  cabarets,  and  they  went  from 
one  dreary  vicious  hole  to  another  until  they  came  on 
one  where  a  party  of  Americans  were  doing  in  Paris  as 
the  Parisians  do.  They  had  brought  on  a  number  of* 
cocottes  from  the  Bal  Tabarin,  and  were  drinking,  shout- 
ing, dancing.  Thompson  led  Oliver  into  the  melee,  and 
soon  she  was  drinking,  shouting,  dancing  with  the  rest. 

Mendel  was  horrified  and  disgusted.  There  was  no 
zest  in  the  riot.  It  was  a  piece  of  deliberate,  cold-blooded 
bestialisation.  He  trembled  with  rage,  and  turned  to 
Logan,  who  was  sitting  with  a  sickly  smile  on  his  face : — 

"You  ought  not  to  let  her,"  he  cried — almost  moaned. 
"If  she  were  my  woman  I  would  not  let  her.  I  would 
kill  any  man  who  laid  hands  on  her  like  that.  She  is  not 
a  prostitute.  I  would  not  let  my  woman  be  a  prostitute." 

But  Logan  did  not  move.  He  sat  with  his  sickly  smile 
on  his  face.  He  was  drunk  and  could  not  move. 

Unable  to  bear  the  scene  any  longer,  Mendel  rushed 
away,  jumped  into  a  taxi,  and  drove  back  to  the  hotel, 
swearing  that  he  would  go  back  to  London  the  next  day. 
He  would  write  and  tell  Logan  that  he  must  get  rid  of 
Oliver  or  no  longer  be  his  friend.  She  was  a  poisonous 
drab.  She  would  be  the  ruin  of  his  friend. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Logan  came  back.  He  was  very 
white,  and  his  hair  was  dank,  and  there  was  a  cold  sweat 
on  his  face. 

"My  God!"  he  said,  "Kuhler!  Are  you  awake?  I 
don't  know  where  she  is.  I  went  to  sleep.  I  was  so 
tired,  and  there  was  such  a  row  with  those  blasted 
Americans.  I  went  to  sleep  and  awoke  to  find  a  nigger 
shaking  me  and  the  place  empty.  .  .  .  Where  does 
Thompson  live?  Do  you  know?" 


290  MENDEL 


"Off  the  Boulevard  Raspail.  I  went  there  to  look  at 
his  rubbishy  pictures.  I  think  I  could  find  the  way.  Are 
you  going  to  kill  him?" 

"I  want  to  find  her,"  said  Logan.  "I  must  find  her. 
It  is  killing  me  to  think  of  her  lost  in  Paris.  I  must  find 
her.  I  can't  sleep  without  her.  I  must  find  her." 

He  hardly  seemed  to  know  what  he  was  saying. 

"Come  along  then,"  said  Mendel.  "I  think  I  can  find 
where  Thompson  lives." 

It  was  not  far.  They  walked  along  the  deserted  boule- 
vard under  the  new  white,  florid  buildings,  and  turned 
into  an  impasse. 

"That's  it,"  said  Mendel.  "Impasse.  I  remember  that. 
A  tall,  thin  house  with  a  big  yellow  door.  Here  it  is." 

They  knocked  until  the  yellow  door  swung  mysteri- 
ously open  and  then  ran  upstairs  to  the  top  floor. 

Thompson  came  blinking  into  the  passage. 

"Where's  Oliver?    Where's  Logan's  girl?" 

Mendel  put  up  his  fist  to  hit  him  in  the  eye. 

"I  put  her  into  a  taxi  and  sent  her  home.  The  Ameri- 
cans took  us  on  to  another  place.  They  were  a  jolly  lot. 
A  terrific  place  they  took  us  to.  There  were  negresses 
dancing  and  a  South  Seas  girl  who  said  Gauguin  brought 
her  back.  .  .  .  Oliver's  all  right.  I  put  her  in  a  taxi  and 
sent  her  back." 

"You're  a  liar !"  shouted  Logan.     "She's  in  there." 

He  rushed  in,  while  Mendel  put  his  arms  round 
Thompson  and  laid  him  neatly  on  the  floor.  In  a  mo- 
ment Logan  was  out  again. 

"You're  a  shocking  bad  painter,"  he  said  to  Thompson, 
"but  she  isn't  there." 

They  left  the  house  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  ho- 
tel. Logan  clung  to  Mendel's  arm,  saying : — 

"It's  my  fault.     She  said  if  ever  I  knocked  her  about 


PARIS 


291 


she'd  clear  out.  Do  you  mind  walking  about  with  me? 
I  couldn't  go  to  bed.  I  couldn't  sleep." 

All  night  they  walked  about;  going  back  to  the  hotel 
every  half  hour  to  see  if  she  was  there,  talking  of  any- 
thing and  everything,  even  politics,  to  keep  Logan's  mind 
from  the  fixed  horrible  idea  that  had  taken  possession 
of  it.  They  saw  the  sun  come  out,  and  the  workers  hur- 
rying along  the  streets,  and  the  waiters  in  the  cafes  push 
up  the  heavy  iron  shutters  that  had  only  been  pulled  down 
an  hour  or  two  before,  and  the  market  women  with  their 
baskets,  and  the  tramcars  glide  and  jolt  along,  the  shops 
open  and  the  girls  go  chattering  to  their  work  through 
the  long,  leisurely  Parisian  day. 

They  returned  at  eight  and  had  breakfast.  At  half- 
past  nine  Oliver  appeared,  smiling  and  serene. 

"We  did  have  fun  last  night !  You  missed  something, 
I  tell  you." 

"Where  have  you  been?"  cried  Logan.  "I've  been 
looking  for  you  all  night." 

"What  a  fool  you  are!    I  can  look  after  myself." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

She  faced  him  with  a  bold  stare  and  said  :— 

"I  got  home  about  half-past  two,  and  I  took  another 
room,  partly  because  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you,  and 
partly — you  know  why." 

"What  number  was  your  room?" 

"Forty-four." 

From  where  they  sat  Mendel  could  see  the  keyboard 
in  the  concierge's  lodge.  There  were  only  forty  rooms 
in  the  hotel. 

"Have  you  had  breakfast?"  asked  Logan,  forcing  hm 

self  to  believe  her. 

"Hours  ago.    In  bed,"  she  replied.    "I  paid  for  it  and 

the  bed." 


292  MENDEL 


"Why  did  you  do  that?"  he  snapped. 

She  caught  Mendel's  eyes  fixed  on  her,  eager  to  see  her 
trapped,  and  she  smiled  insolently  as  she  replied: — 

"I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  joke  if  I  let  you  think 
I  had  been  out  all  night.  But  you  look  such  a  wreck 
that  I  don't  think  you  could  see  a  joke.  .  .  .  What  are 
we  going  to  do  to-day  ?" 

"We  are  going  home,"  said  Logan. 


BOOK  THREE:    THE  PASSING 
OF  YOUTH 


BOOK  THREE:  THE  PASSING  OF  YOUTH 


CHAPTER  I 

EDWARD   TUFNELL 


A  WRETCHED  journey  home,  a  miserable  journey. 
There  had  been  a  high  wind,  leaving  a  heavy  swell, 
and  Mendell  shared  the  feelings  of  his  brother-in-law, 
Moscowitsch,  concerning  the  sea.  It  made  him  ill,  and 
he  never  wished  to  see  it  again. 

Oliver  sat  with  her  eyes  closed  while  Logan  held  her 
hand  and  whispered  to  her.  The  boat  was  crowded,  for 
it  was  the  first  to  make  the  crossing  for  two  days.  De- 
testable people,  detestable  sea,  detestable  evil-smelling 
boat !  .  .  .  How  lightly  they  had  undertaken  the  trip  to 
Paris!  Only  seven  hours!  But  what  hours! 

Mendel's  disgust  endured  until  they  reached  London. 
This  was  home  to  him,  and  never,  never  again  would  he 
travel.  The  discomfort  of  it  was  too  odious,  the  shock  to 
his  habits  too  great.  In  London  he  did  at  least  know 
what  to  avoid,  while  in  Paris  there  was  no  knowing  when 
he  might  be  plunged  into  a  dreary,  glittering  place  full 
of  prostitutes  and  Americans. 

He  was  glad  to  part  with  Logan  and  Oliver.  They 
had  so  much  to  settle  with  each  other  that  he  felt  he 

295 


296  MENDEL 


was  an  unnecessary  third.  Paris  had  done  violence  to 
their  relationship.  They  had  gone  there  light  of  heart ; 
they  had  returned  oppressed  and  entangled.  .  .  .  And 
in  London  it  was  raining;  but  that  was  good,  because 
familiar.  It  was  good  to  go  out  into  the  friendly  streets 
and  to  see  them  shining  like  black  rivers,  and  to  see  the 
people  hurrying  under  their  dripping  umbrellas  and  the 
women  with  their  skirts  up  to  their  knees. 

He  seemed  to  have  been  away  a  very  long  time,  and 
yet  Paris  seemed  very  far  off  too,  an  unreal  memory, 
like  a  place  of  which  he  had  read  or  seen  in  photographs. 
He  was  glad  when  he  mounted  a  bus  and  knew  that  it 
was  bearing  him  towards  his  own  people. 

Golda  was  very  excited.  She  had  had  a  letter  from 
Harry,  who  had  seen  his  brother  in  Paris,  but  had 
been  too  shy  to  speak  to  him  because  of  his  friends. 

"You  should  have  gone  to  see  your  brother,"  she  said. 

"How  could  I?"  asked  Mendel.  "I  did  not  know 
where  he  was." 

"You  speak  Yiddish.  You  could  have  found  him.  He 
has  done  very  well,  but  he  is  coming  home  to  us.  He 
does  not  like  to  live  away  from  his  people,  and  he  says 
England  is  best." 

And  Mendel  thought  that  England  was  indeed  best. 
For  him,  then,  England  meant  his  mother's  kitchen,  with 
its  odd  decorations  from  Tottenham  Court  Road,  its 
dresser  crammed  with  gilded  china  and  fringed  with  cut 
green  paper,  its  collection  of  his  early  pictures,  almost 
all  hanging  crooked,  and  the  hard  wooden  chair  in  which 
Golda  sat  all  day  long  with  her  hands  on  her  stomach, 
dreaming  and  brooding  of  her  life,  which  through  all  her 
hardships  had  been  sweet  because  of  her  beautiful  child 
whom  everybody  loved  and  spoiled,  as  she  herself  loved 
and  spoiled  him  because  he  was  not  like  other  children. 


EDWARD  TUFNELL  297 

England  was  best  because  it  could  contain  that  peace  and 
that  beauty,  and  there  was  nothing  in  England  to  harm  it 
or  in  envy  to  destfoy  it. 

Mendel  could  understand  his  brother  wanting  to  come 
back  to  it ;  for  he,  too,  from  all  his  adventures,  returned 
to  its  simplicity  for  strength  and  comfort. 

Moscowitsch  came  in  with  a  Jewish  paper.  He  was  in 
a  terrible  state  of  anger  and  hatred.  His  eyes  flashed 
and  his  nostrils  quivered  as  he  read  out  how  a  Jew  in 
Russia  had  been  accused  of  killing  a  Christian  boy  for 
his  blood,  and  how  over  a  thousand  Jews  had  been  mas- 
sacred on  the  instigation  of  the  police. 

"It  grows  worse  and  worse,"  he  said.  "The  Jews  do 
not  kill.  It  is  the  Christians  who  lust  for  blood.  It  is 
the  Christians  who  are  so  wicked  and  dishonest  that, 
when  they  must  be  found  out,  they  say  it  is  the  Jews, 
or  that  the  Jews  are  more  wicked  than  they.  It  is  im- 
possible. But  England  is  good  to  the  Jews.  England 
must  send  soldiers  to  Russia  or  the  Jews  will  be  all  mur- 
dered." 

"Yes,  it  is  bad  in  Russia,"  said  Golda,  nodding  her 
head.  "But  life  is  bad  everywhere  for  good  people. 
Only  in  England  one  is  left  alone." 

"Well,  Mr.  Artist!"  said  Moscowitsch  genially.  "Made 
your  fortune  yet?" 

"No,"  replied  Mendel ;  "but  I  have  been  to  Paris  for 
my  holidays  and  I  stayed  in  a  hotel.  Three  of  us  spent 
twenty  pounds." 

"So  ?"  said  Moscowitsch,  impressed.  "Have  you  made 
it  up  with  the  Birnbaum,  then?" 

"No." 

"That  is  not  the  way  to  get  on,  to  quarrel  with  money. 

"If  he  wants  money,"  said  Golda,  "he  can  always  get 


298  MENDEL 


it.  What  more  do  you  want?  There  are  some  letters 
for  you,  Mendel." 

He  opened  his  letters,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  tell- 
ing Moscowitsch  that  he  was  asked  to  paint  a  portrait 
for  thirty  pounds. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Moscowitsch.  "A  lord?"  He  had 
an  idea  that  only  lords  had  their  portraits  painted  by 
hand. 

"That's  better,"  he  said.  "That's  better  than  painting 
those  pictures  that  nobody  wants.  You  paint  what  they 
ask  you  and  you'll  soon  make  your  fortune,  and  be  able 
to  give  your  mother  dresses  covered  with  beads  and 
tickets  for  the  theatre  and  china  ornaments.  And  you 
can  be  thankful  you  don't  live  in  Russia.  They  wouldn't 
let  you  be  an  artist  there.  If  you  became  a  student  they 
would  send  you  off  to  Siberia  and  you  would  die  in  the 
snow." 

It  was  the  first  time  Moscowitsch  had  spoken  to  him 
since  the  breach  with  Birnbaum,  and  Mendel  was  at  his 
ease  with  him  again,  and  glad  to  be  with  his  people.  He 
knew  that  Moscowitsch  was  greatly  attached  to  Golda, 
and  had  more  than  once  urged  his  being  taken  away  from 
his  painting  and  put  to  some  useful  trade. 

"Oh!  I  shall  very  soon  succeed,"  he  said  boastfully. 
"This  is  only  a  beginning.  You  keep  an  eye  on  that  pa- 
per of  yours.  You  will  find  something  else  to  read  be- 
sides what  Russia  does  to  the  Jews.  You  will  see  what 
England  does  for  a  Jew  when  he  has  talent  and  honesty." 

"They  made  Disraeli  a  lord,"  said  Moscowitsch. 

"I  shall  be  something  much  better  than  a  lord." 

"They  only  make  painters  R.  A." 

"I  shall  be  much  better  than  that,"  said  Mendel. 

"It  is  like  old  times,"  laughed  Golda,  "to  hear  him 
boasting." 


EDWARD  TUFNELL 


299 


Mendel  opened  another  letter.  It  was  an  invitation  to 
become  a  member  of  an  exhibiting  club  which  considered 
itself  exclusive. 

"I  have  been  invited  to  become  a  member  of  a  club." 
That  settled  Moscowitsch.  A  club  to  him  was  proof 
of  success  and  social  distinction.  He  and  his  wife  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  member  of  the  music-hall 
profession  who  had  two  clubs,  and  they  counted  him  a 
feather  in  their  caps.  To  have  a  member  of  a  club  in 
the  family  was  almost  overwhelming,  and  he  forgot  the 
sorrows  of  the  Jews  in  Russia. 

The  portrait  commission  was  from  Edward  Tufnell, 
who  had  lately  married  and  had  been  adopted  as  a  can- 
didate for  Parliament  for  a  northern  constituency. 
Good  earnest  soul  that  he  was,  he  regarded  himself  as 
responsible  for  launching  Mendel  upon  the  world,  and 
once  he  had  assumed  a  responsibility  he  never  forgot  it. 
Nothing  made  any  difference  to  him.  He  had  heard  tales 
of  the  boy's  wildness,  but  he  accepted  responsibility  for 
that  too,  read  up  the  histories  of  men  of  genius  for  prece- 
dent, and  acknowledged  the  inevitability  of  the  flying  of 
sparks  from  the  collision  of  a  strong  individuality  and 
the  habits  of  the  world. 

He  had  always  intended  to  give  his  protege  a  lift,  and 
had  tried  in  vain  to  badger  his  father  and  his  uncle,  part- 
ners in  a  huge  woollen  manufactory,  into  having  their 
portraits  painted.  They  preferred  to  sink  their  money 
in  men  with  reputations.  He  did  not  see  how  Mendel 
could  acquire  a  reputation  except  by  giving  him  work  to 
do.  On  the  other  hand,  he  shrank  from  what  he  con- 
sidered the  vanity  of  having  his  own  portrait  painted, 
but  his  charmingly  pretty  wife  gave  him  the  opportunity 
he  desired. 


300  MENDEL 


Therefore  he  invited  Mendel  to  his  house  in  the  dales 
to  stay  until  the  picture  was  finished. 

A  day  or  two  later  and  Mendel  was  in  the  train,  being 
whirled  North  through  the  dull,  rolling  Midlands  and 
the  black,  smirched  valleys  of  the  West  Riding.  The 
gloomy  sky  filled  him  with  terror.  At  first  he  thought 
there  was  going  to  be  a  storm,  but  there  seemed  to  be 
no  life  in  the  sky,  and  its  strangeness  oppressed  him.  The 
people  in  the  train  spoke  a  language  which  seemed  almost 
as  foreign  as  French,  and  when  the  train  darted  through 
forests  of  smoking  chimney-stacks  and  he  looked  down 
into  the  grimy,  trough-like  streets,  he  was  dismayed  to 
think  that  here  were  depths  of  misery  compared  with 
which  the  East  End  was  as  a  holiday  ground.  This,  too, 
was  England,  and  he  had  said  that  England  was  best. 
He  remembered  Jews  in  the  East  End  who  had  fled  from 
the  North  and  said  they  would  rather  go  back  to  Russia 
than  return  to  the  tailoring  shops  and  the  boot  factories. 
So  this  vile,  busy  blackness  was  the  North ! 

For  some  mysterious  reason  it  made  him  think  of  Lo- 
gan and  Oliver,  and  the  thought  of  them  filled  him  with 
an  added  uneasiness.  He  had  not  thought  of  them  once 
since  the  trip  to  Paris,  and  now  he  felt  bound  to  them, 
and  that  they  were  a  weight  upon  him.  They  stood  out 
vividly  against  the  murky,  lifeless  sky.  He  could  see 
them  standing  hand  in  hand,  smiling  a  little  foolishly, 
and  a  physical  tremor  shot  through  him  as  he  thought  of 
the  contact  of  their  two  hands,  thrilling  together,  press- 
ing together,  to  tell  of  their  terrible  need  of  each  other. 
....  This  man  and  this  woman.  Mendel  was  haunted 
by  the  images  of  all  the  couples  he  knew,  and  they  passed 
before  him  like  a  shadowy  procession  of  the  damned,  all 
hand  in  hand,  across  the  lifeless  sky,  all  shadowy  except 
Logan  and  Oliver,  and  then  two  others,  his  father  and 


EDWARD  TUFNELL  301 

his  mother ;  but  they  were  not  hand  in  hand.  They  were 
seated  side  by  side,  like  two  statues,  and  behind  them 
the  lifeless  sky  broke  and  opened  to  show  the  infinite 
blue  space  beyond  the  clouds. 

He  had  changed  at  the  darkest  of  the  chimneyed  towns, 
and  the  shabby  local  train  went  grinding  and  puffing 
through  a  tunnel  into  a  vast  green  valley.  At  the  first 
station  he  saw  Edward  Tufnell  on  the  platform.  He  had 
changed  a  good  deal,  and  was  no  longer  the  lanky,  ear- 
nest youth  of  the  Settlement,  but  his  eyes  still  had  their 
steady,  serene  expression  and  their  sunny,  beautiful  smile. 

He  flung  up  his  hand  as  he  saw  Mendel,  smiled,  and 
came  fussily,  as  though  he  were  meeting  the  Prime  Min- 
ister himself.  He  insisted  on  carrying  Mendel's  bag  and 
canvases  and  made  him  feel  small  and  young  again,  as 
he  used  to  when  he  went  trotting  along  by  Edward's  side 
on  his  way  to  the  French  class. 

"It's  a  long  journey,"  said  Edward.  "You  must  be 
tired." 

"Oh  no !  I  don't  mind  any  journey  as  long  as  I  don't 
have  to  cross  the  sea." 

"It  is  only  two  miles  now." 

They  climbed  into  a  dogcart  and  drove,  for  the  most 
part  at  a  walk,  up  a  long,  winding  road  that  crept  like 
a  worm  along  the  flanks  of  a  huge  hill. 

"Glorious  country!"  said  Edward.  "I  love  it.  The 
South  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  country  at  all — just  a 
huge  park.  One  is  afraid  to  walk  on  the  grass.  But 
here  there  is  room  and  freedom.  One  understands  why 
the  North  is  Liberal." 

"It  is  too  big  for  me,"  replied  Mendel.      'But  then  I 
can't  get  used  to  the  country.     I'm  not  myself  in  it. 
feel  in  it  as  though  I  were  on  the  edge  of  the  world  and 
in  danger  of  falling  off.    Yes.    The  country  seems  dan- 


302  MENDEL 


gerous  to  me,  and  I  could  never  walk  along  a  road  at 
night." 

"How  odd  that  is!"  laughed  Edward.  "If  I  am  ever 
afraid  it  is  in  the  town.  The  vast  masses  of  people  do 
really  terrify  me  sometimes,  when  I  think  of  governing 
them  all." 

"They  can  look  after  themselves,"  said  Mendel  simply. 

Over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill  they  came  on  a  grey 
stone  house  with  a  walled  garden.  Edward  turned  in 
at  the  gate,  flicked  his  horse  into  a  trot  up  the  steep 
drive,  and  drew  up  by  the  front  door,  in  which  was 
standing  a  dainty  little  lady  in  a  mauve  cotton  gown  and 
a  wide  Leghorn  straw  hat. 

"Here  he  is,  my  dear!"  said  Edward.  "My  wife, 
Kuhler." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  could  come,"  said  the  little  lady. 
"My  husband  has  told  me  so  much  about  you." 

"Not  half  what  he  could  tell  if  he  only  knew,"  thought 
Mendel. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  a  very  long  way  for  you  to  come," 
she  said,  leading  him  into  the  house  while  Edward  drove 
round  to  the  stables.  "It  is  very  good  of  you.  We  are 
very  quiet  here,  but  you  can  do  just  as  you  like,  and  I 
shall  always  be  ready  for  you  when  you  want  me." 

She  had  a  very  charming  voice  that  seemed  to  bubble 
with  happiness,  and  she  had  the  air  of  being  surprised 
at  herself  for  being  so  happy.  The  house  was  per- 
vaded with  her  atmosphere,  fragrant  and  good,  and  every 
corner  seemed  to  be  full  of  surprise,  every  piece  of  fur- 
niture looked  astonished  at  finding  itself  in  its  place — 
so  perfectly  in  its  place.  This  fragrant  perfection  was 
the  more  amazing  as  the  outside  of  the  house  was  more 
than  a  little  grim,  and  the  hill  behind  it  was  dark  and 


EDWARD  TUFNELL  303 

ominous,  while  several  of  the  trees  were  blasted  and 
chapped  with  the  wind. 

Mendel  had  never  seen  such  a  house,  and  when  Edward 
took  him  up  to  his  room  he  almost  wept  with  delight  at 
the  comfort  and  sweetness  of  it  all.  There  was  a  fire 
burning  in  the  grate,  by  the  side  of  which  was  a  huge 
easy  chair.  Flowered  chintz  curtains  were  drawn  across 
the  windows,  and  the  same  gay  chintz  covered  the  bed. 
On  the  wash-hand-stand  was  a  shining  brass  can  of  hot 
water.  There  were  books  by  the  bedside,  the  carpet  was 
of  a  thick  pile,  and  the  furniture  was  old  and  exquisite. 
.  .  .  He  was  filled  with  delight  and  gratitude. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "England  is  best!  Comfortable 
England." 

And  when  Edward  showed  him  the  big  tiled  bathroom 
he  had  a  shiver  of  dismay,  and  thought  what  a  dirty,  un- 
couth fellow  he  was  to  come  among  these  exquisite 
people. 

Mary  Tufnell  put  him  at  his  ease  at  once  and  en- 
couraged him  to  talk  about  himself.  He  was  frank  and 
gay  and  amusing,  and  told  her  about  his  adventures  and 
many  of  his  troubles,  and  even  ventured  once  or  twice 
upon  scabrous  details. 

"He  is  a  darling,"  she  said  to  Edward.  "But  how  he 
must  have  suffered.  He  is  such  a  boy,  but  sometimes  he 
seems  to  me  the  oldest  person  I  have  ever  met." 

"You  must  remember  that  he  is  a  Jew,"  said  Edward. 

"He  doesn't  let  you  forget  it,"  replied  she. 

The  portrait  was  begun  the  next  day.  Mendel  took  a 
business-like  view  of  his  visit.  He  was  there  to  paint 
and  to  make  thirty  pounds.  Every  moment  that  his  hos- 
tess could  spare  he  seized  upon.  He  painted  her  in  her 


304  MENDEL 


mauve  cotton  and  Leghorn  hat  and  would  not  talk  while 
he  worked. 

When  the  light  was  gone  he  was  ready  for  any  enter- 
tainment they  might  propose.  He  did  not  find  either  of 
them  particularly  interesting,  and  their  unfailing  kindness 
wearied  him  not  a  little.  They  were  so  invariably  good 
in  every  thought,  word,  and  deed.  It  seemed  impossible 
for  them  to  fail.  There  was  no  combination  of  circum- 
stances which  they  could  not  surmount  with  their  smil- 
ing patience.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  them  as  two  people 
walking  along  on  either  side  of  a  road,  smiling  across  it 
at  each  other.  Nothing  joined  them.  They  had  never 
met.  There  had  been  no  collision.  He  had  overtaken  her 
on  the  road  and  had  taken  her  step,  her  pace.  .  .  .  They 
had  just  that  air.  Dear  Edward  had  fallen  in  with  her 
by  the  wayside,  and  she  had  smiled  at  him  and  he  was 
content  and  held  for  life.  To  their  mutual  grave  aston- 
ishment she  would  have  children,  and  her  smile  would 
become  a  little  sad,  and  with  the  children  she  would  be 
an  ideal  to  Edward,  like  the  little  Italian  Madonnas  of 
whom  he  had  so  many  photographs  all  over  the  house. 
And  between  them  on  the  road  would  march  the  brave 
procession  of  life — kings  and  beggars,  priests  and  pros- 
titutes, artists  and  peasants,  chariots,  and  strange  engines 
of  peace  and  war;  but  they  would  see  nothing  of  it: 
they  would  see  only  each  other,  and  they  would  smile 
and  go  smiling  to  the  grave. 

Mendel  was  at  his  ease  with  them  and  very  happy,  but 
suddenly  out  of  nowhere  there  would  arise,  as  it  were, 
a  great  stench  that  pricked  his  nostrils  and  set  him  long- 
ing for  London.  And  he  would  think  of  Logan  and 
Oliver  and  ache  to  be  with  them,  so  that  he  knew  that 
he  was  bound  to  them  in  the  flesh.  They  were  embarked 
upon  a  great  adventure  in  which  he  must  be  with  them  to 


EDWARD  TUFNELL  305 

the  end,  for  Logan  was  his  friend,  with  whom  he 
must  share  even  the  deepest  bitterness.  With  Edward  he 
could  share  nothing  at  all,  for  Edward  was  absurdly,  in- 
credibly innocent,  content  to  smile  by  the  wayside. 

He  wrote  to  Logan  and  Oliver  and  told  them  how  he 
was  longing  to  be  with  them,  and  how  the  country  filled 
him  with  childish  fears,  and  how  Paris  seemed  a  thou- 
sand miles  away  and  its  adventures  a  thousand  years  ago. 
And  he  was  hurt  because  they  did  not  at  once  reply. 

He  received  two  letters  one  morning.  Logan  wrote 
telling  him  he  ought  not  to  waste  his  time  over  portraits, 
and  that  he  must  come  back  to  London  soon,  because  the 
autumn  was  to  see  their  triumph :  nothing  about  himself, 
nothing  about  Oliver.  Mendel  was  disappointed :  nobody 
ever  really  answered  his  letters,  into  which  he  flung  all 
his  feeling. 

His  other  letter  was  from  Morrison.  His  first  letter 
from  her.  He  knew  her  hand,  though  he  had  never  seen 
it  before — round,  big,  simple.  He  kept  her  letter  until 
his  day's  work  was  done,  and  then  he  went  into  the  gar- 
den to  read  it.  There  was  an  arbour  at  the  end  of  a 
mossy  walk  which  led  to  a  crag  above  a  little  waterfall. 
Out  of  the  crag  grew  a  mountain  ash,  brilliant  in  berry. 
This  was  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  garden,  and  so 
he  chose  it  for  reading  the  letter. 

"I  want  you  to  forgive  me  for  being  so  foolish.  I 
want  to  try  again.  I  hate  being  beaten,  and  I  think  it 
was  only  my  stupidity  that  beat  me.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  you  all  the  time,  and  I  have  been  troubled  about  you. 
What  people  said  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it.  I 
admire  you  more  than  I  can  say,  and  I  have  been  very 
foolish. 

"It  has  been  a  lovely  summer.  I  have  been  working 
hard  and  feel  hopeless  about  it.  Please  don't  ask  to  see 


306  MENDEL 


my  work.  While  I  am  at  it  I  am  wondering  all  the  time 
what  you  are  doing. 

"I  am  to  be  allowed  to  come  back  to  London  in  Oc- 
tober. There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  write  to 
me." 

She  was  there  with  him,  by  his  side,  under  the  glowing 
rowan-tree,  gazing  down  at  the  little  white  waterfall 
dashing  so  merrily  down  into  the  pebbled  beck.  She 
was  there  with  him,  and  his  blood  sang  in  his  veins  and 
his  mind  began  to  work,  pounding  along  as  it  had  not 
done  these  many  weeks.  .  .  .  Weeks?  Years — more 
than  a  lifetime. 

He  went  back  to  his  picture  and  thought  it  very,  very 
bad.  Edward  and  his  wife  came  in  and  looked  at  it 
dubiously. 

"Of  course,"  said  Edward,  "it  is  a  very  jolly  picture, 
but  I  don't  think  you  have  caught  all  her  charm." 

"But  the  painting  of  the  hat  is  wonderful,"  said  Mary. 

"What  do  I  care  ?"  thought  Mendel.  "It  is  you — you 
as  you  are,  smiling,  eternally  smiling  over  your  little 
clean,  comfortable  happiness,  three  parts  of  which  you 
have  bought,  with  your  servants  and  your  flowers  and 
your  bathroom." 

In  a  day  or  two  he  was  being  whirled  back  to  London, 
shouting  every  now  and  then  from  sheer  exuberance — 
thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket,  October  to  look  forward  to : 
October,  when  London  shook  off  its  summer  listlessness ; 
October,  when  She  would  return;  and  until  October  he 
would  run  with  his  eyes  on  the  trail  of  the  burning,  creep- 
ing passion  that  bound  him  to  Logan  and  Oliver. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    CAMPAIGN    OPENS 


HE  reached  London  in  the  afternoon,  and  as  soon  as 
it  was  evening  went  to  Camden  Town  to  find  Lo- 
gan. Only  Oliver  was  in.  She  was  sitting  in  the  window 
smoking.  There  had  been  a  tea-party,  and  the  floor  was 
littered  with  cups,  plates  of  bread  and  butter  and  cakes, 
fragments  of  biscuit,  some  of  which  had  been  trodden  on. 

Mendel  surveyed  this  litter  ruefully,  and  he  said  :— 

"Why  don't  you  wash  up?" 

"Logan  said  he  would.  I  washed  up  after  breakfast. 
I'm  not  a  servant,  and  he  keeps  on  promising  to  have 
some  one  in  to  help." 

"Will  you  wash  up  if  I  help  you?" 

"No,  thanks.     Logan's  got  to  do  it." 

"Who  has  been  to  tea?" 

"Oh !  A  funny  lot.  Some  of  Logan's  fools  who  think 
he  is  a  great  man." 

"He  is  a  great  man,"  said  Mendel. 

"Heuh !  You  try  living  with  him.  What's  the  good 
of  being  a  great  man  if  you  don't  make  any  money  ?  It's 
all  very  well  for  Calthrop  to  live  like  a  pig.  He  makes 
money  and  can  do  what  he  likes." 

"If  you  don't  like  it  you  can  always  clear  out." 

"Where  to  ?  Eh  ?  To  go  the  round  of  the  studios  and 
oblige  people  like  you?  Not  much!  It  isn't  as  if  I  was 

307 


308  MENDEL 


married  to  him.  I  can't  make  him  keep  me.  Besides,  he 
wouldn't  let  me  go.  If  I  went  he  would  run  after  me. 
I  suppose  you  hadn't  thought  of  that,  Mr.  Kiihler.  You 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  care  for  anybody.  I'd  like  to  see 
some  one  play  you  and  play  you,  and  then  turn  you  down. 
That  would  teach  you  a  lesson,  that  would." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  stand  it  any  longer,"  she  said.  "I'm 
not  going  to  be  put  on  one  side  like  dirt  while  you  go  on 
with  your  conceited  talk.  You're  both  so  conceited  you 
don't  know  how  to  hold  yourselves.  I'm  a  woman,  and 
I  stand  for  something  in  the  world.  A  woman  is  more 
important  than  the  biggest  picture  that  was  ever  painted." 

"It  depends  upon  the  woman." 

"All  right,  then.  I'm  more  important.  You  talk  about 
Logan  keeping  me.  He  can  consider  himself  damned 
lucky  I  stay  with  him." 

"Oh!  you're  both  in  luck,"  snapped  Mendel,  and  he 
sat  down  and  refused  to  say  another  word. 

Oliver  began  to  whistle  and  then  to  hum.  She  fidgeted 
in  her  chair.  She  thought  she  had  come  off  rather  well 
in  the  sparring  match.  She  had  been  dreading  Mendel's 
return,  for  since  the  Paris  adventure  she  had  been  assert- 
ing herself,  as  she  called  it,  beating  Logan  down,  bewil- 
dering him  with  her  extraordinary  sweetness  and  cajolery 
and  sudden  outbursts  of  fury.  Both  had  agreed  to  bury 
the  memory  of  the  last  night  in  Paris,  but  the  thoughts  of 
both  were  centred  upon  it.  She  rejoiced  that  she  had 
served  him  out,  but  she  had  been  stirred  to  a  degree  that 
alarmed  her.  Her  former  condition  of  lazy  sensual  se- 
curity had  been  broken,  and  she  dreaded  Logan's  jeal- 
ousy. She  knew  that  she  was  not  his  equal  in  force,  but 
she  set  herself  to  overcome  him  with  cunning.  His  force 
would  spend  itself.  She  knew  that.  She  must  then  bind 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  309 

him  fast  with  tricks  and  lures,  rouse  the  curiosity  of  his 
senses  and  keep  it  unsatisfied. 

She  had  succeeded  wonderfully.  Logan  crumbled  and 
turned  soft  and  sugary  under  her  arts,  and  only  one  im- 
pulse in  him  resisted  her — his  love  for  Mendel;  and 
through  that  love  his  passion  for  art.  Therefore  she 
dreaded  and  hated  Mendel's  return. 

Presently  she  ceased  to  hum.  She  thought  suddenly 
that  perhaps  it  had  been  a  mistake  to  meet  Mendel  with 
hostility. 

"I  say,  Kiihler,  do  give  us  one  of  your  cigarettes. 
These  are  awful  muck." 

He  threw  his  cigarette-case  over  to  her. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time  up  North?" 

"Yes." 

"I  come  from  there,  you  know.  Logan  was  furious 
with  you  for  going.  He  is  really  very  fond  of  you,  you 
know." 

"I  don't  need  you  to  tell  me  that." 

"He's  very  excited  just  now.  He  keeps  talking  about 
the  artistic  revolution  and  the  twentieth  century,  and  all 
that,  you  know.  He  has  been  reading  a  book  called  'John 
Christopher,'  and  keeps  on  reading  it  aloud  until  I'm  sick 
of  it.  I  believe  he  thinks  he  is  like  Christopher,  though 
I'm  sure  he's  not,  because  Christopher  could  never  see  a 
joke.  It  is  all  about  women,  one  after  another,  just  left 
anyhow.  It  doesn't  sound  like  a  story  to  me  at  all." 

"It  sounds  true,"  said  Mendel,  not  paying  much  atten- 
tion to  what  she  said. 

To  his  intense  relief  Logan  came  in  with  a  frame  under 
his  arm. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "Got  back?  How  did  you  like  the 
swells?" 

"They  were  good  people,"  replied  Mendel,  "and  won- 


310  MENDEL 


derfully  peaceful.  I  don't  think  I  appreciated  it  enough 
while  I  was  there,  but  it  seems  very  clear  and  beautiful 
to  me  now." 

"Portrait  any  good  ?" 

"No." 

Logan  put  down  his  frame  and  without  a  word  to 
Oliver  proceeded  to  wash  up  the  tea-things.  She  stayed 
in  her  chair  in  the  window  and  hummed. 

To  Mendel  his  friend  seemed  altered.  He  had  lost  his 
good-humour  and  something  of  his  happy  recklessness, 
and  he  was  more  concentrated  and  full  of  a  wary  self- 
consciousness. 

He  came  out  of  the  bedroom  when  the  washing  up  was 
done  and  flung  himself  on  the  divan,  stretched  himself 
out,  and  said: — 

"I'm  tired ;  done  up.  Lord !  What  fools  there  are  in 
the  world !  No  more  portraits  for  you,  my  boy ;  at  least, 
not  this  side  of  thirty.  Ten  years'  good  solid  work 
ahead  of  you." 

He  laughed. 

"I  told  Cluny  he  must  hurry  up  or  you  would  slide  off 
into  portrait-painting.  Dealers  hate  the  mere  sound  of 
the  word.  He  is  going  to  hurry  up.  I've  played  you  for 
all  I  am  worth,  and  Cluny  is  in  my  pocket.  Oh!  I'm  a 
man  of  destiny,  I  am." 

A  snort  and  a  giggle  came  from  Oliver.    Logan  sat  up. 

"Leave  the  room !"  he  said. 

"Shan't." 

"Leave  the  room.    I  want  to  talk  to  Kiihler." 

"Talk  away  then.     I  shan't  listen." 

Logan  walked  over  to  her,  seized  her  by  the  arms,  and 
pushed  her  into  the  bedroom  and  locked  the  door.  II  was 
done  very  quickly  and  dexterously,  as  though  it  were  a 
practised  manoeuvre. 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS 


"I'm  finding  out  how  to  treat  her,"  he  said.  "Quiet 
firmness  does  the  trick." 

He  met  Mendel's  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  horrified  inquiry 
and  turned  sharply  away. 

"It  isn't  as  bad  as  it  looks,"  he  said.  "The  fact  is, 
women  aren't  fit  for  liberty  and  an  artist  ought  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  them.  But  what  can  a  man  do  ?  ... 
What  were  we  talking  about  ?" 

"Cluny." 

"Oh  yes !  He  wants  the  exhibition  to  be  the  first  fort- 
night in  November.  Can  you  be  ready  by  then  ?  It  must 
be  a  turning-point  in  art,  the  beginning  of  big  things. 
I  know  myself  enough  to  realise  that  it  is  doubtful  if  I 
shall  ever  be  a  great  creative  artist,  but  I  shall  be  the  Na- 
poleon of  the  new  movement — the  soldier  and  the  or- 
ganiser of  the  revolution  in  art.  And  it  won't  be  con- 
fined to  art ;  it  will  spread  through  everything.  Art  will 
be  the  central  international  republic  from  which  the  com- 
monwealths which  will  take  the  place  of  the  present  vul- 
gar capitalistic  nations  will  be  inspired.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  an  idea?" 

.  "Stick  to  art,"  said  Mendel.     "I  know  nothing  about 
the  rest." 

"Do  you  remember  my  saying  that  the  music-hall  was 
all  that  was  left  of  old  England?  I  did  not  know  how 
true  it  was.  England  has  become  one  vast  music-hall, 
with  everybody  with  any  talent  or  brains  scrambling  to 
top  the  bill.  It  runs  through  everything— art,  politics, 
the  press,  literature,  social  reform,  women's  suffrage,  lo- 
cal government ;  and  the  people  who  top  the  bill  can't  be 
dislodged,  just  like  the  poor  old  crocks  on  the  halls,  who 
come  on  and  give  the  same  show  they  were  giving  twenty 
years  ago,  and  get  applause  instead  of  rotten  eggs  be- 
cause the  British  public  is  so  rotten  with  sentiment  and 


312  MENDEL 


so  stupid  that  it  can't  tell  when  a  man  has  lost  his  talent. 
Please  one  generation  in  England  and  its  grandchildren 
will  applaud  you,  though  everything  about  you  is  changed 
except  your  name.  The  result  is,  of  course,  that  no  talent 
is  ever  properly  developed.  A  man  reaches  the  point 
where  he  can  please  enough  people  to  make  a  living,  and 
he  sticks  there.  Now,  I  ask  you,  is  that  a  state  of  things 
which  a  self-respecting  artist  can  accept?" 

"No,"  said  Mendel.    "No." 

"Well.  It  has  to  be  altered.  And  who  is  to  alter  it  if 
not  the  painters,  who  are  less  in  contact  with  the  general 
public  than  any  other  artists?  Painters  had  a  comfort- 
able time  last  century,  living  on  the  North-country  mu- 
nicipal councils,  but  that  is  all  over  and  we  are  reduced  to 
poops  like  Tysoe.  There  are  any  number  of  them,  if  one 
only  took  the  trouble  to  dig  them  up,  but  they're  no 
good.  I've  lived  on  them  for  the  last  ten  years,  and 
they're  no  good.  You  might  as  well  squeeze  your  paints 
into  the  sink  and  turn  on  the  tap  for  all  the  flicker  of 
appreciation  you  get  out  of  them.  Then  there  are  the 
snobs,  the  semi-demimondaines  of  the  political  set;  but 
they  are  a  seedy  lot,  with  the  minds  and  the  interests  of 
chorus-girls.  You  might  whip  up  a  little  excitement  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  but  it  would  only  vanish  as  soon 
as  the  young  idiots  came  in  contact  with  London  and  fell 
in  love.  .  .  .  No.  Behind  the  scenes  of  the  music-hall  is 
no  good.  We  must  make  a  direct  onslaught  on  the  gen- 
eral public.  They  must  be  taught  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  art  and  that  there  are  men  devoted  to  the  disin- 
terested development  of  their  talents — men  who  have  no 
desire  to  top  the  bill  or  to  make  five  hundred  a  week; 
men  who  recognise  that  art  is  European,  universal,  the  in- 
visible fabric  in  which  human  life  is  contained,  and  are 
content,  like  simple  workmen,  to  keep  it  in  repair." 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  313 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mendel,  "if  my  brother-in-law 
Moscowitsch  is  typical,  but  he  regards  art  which  does 
not  make  money  as  a  waste  of  time." 

"Oh!  He  is  a  Jew  and  uneducated.  That's  where 
Tolstoi  went  so  wrong.  He  confused  the  simplicity  of 
art  with  the  simplicity  of  the  peasant,  the  dignity  of  the 
unsophisticated  with  the  dignity  that  is  achieved  through 
sophistication.  It  may  seem  absurd  to  talk  of  bringing 
about  anything  so  big  through  little  Cluny,  but  it  is  not 
only  possible,  it  is  inevitable.  The  staleness  of  London 
cannot  go  on,  and  Paris  seemed  just  the  same  to  me. 
Stagnation  is  intolerable.  There  must  come  a  movement 
towards  freedom  and  a  grander  gesture,  and  the  only  free 
people  are  the  painters.  They  are  the  only  people  whose 
work  has  not  become  servile  and  vulgarised.  Through 
them  lies  the  natural  outlet.  .  .  .  Oh !  I  have  been  think- 
ing and  thinking,  and  I  thank  God  we  met  before  you  had 
been  spoiled  by  success  or  I  had  been  ruined  by  my  rotten 
swindling  life — though  that  has  had  its  advantages  too, 
and  I  can  meet  the  dealers  on  their  own  ground,  and  if 
necessary  advertise  as  impudently  as  any  of  the  music- 
hall  artists." 

Oliver  began  to  hammer  on  the  door.  He  went  and 
unlocked  it  and  let  her  in. 

"You  can  talk  as  much  as  you  like  now,"  he  said.  "I've 
said  my  say." 

"I  heard  you,"  she  replied,  "talking  to  Kiihler  as  if  he 
was  a  crowd  in  Hyde  Park." 

Mendel  was  lost  in  thought.  He  was  baffled  by  this 
association  of  art  with  things  like  politics  and  music-halls, 
which  he  had  always  accepted  as  part  of  the  world's  con- 
stitution but  essentially  unimportant.  He  had  no  organ- 
ised mental  life.  His  ideas  came  direct  from  his  instincts 
to  his  mind,  and  were  either  used  for  immediate  purposes 


314  MENDEL 


or  dropped  back  again  to  return  when  wanted.  However, 
he  recognised  the  passionate  nervous  energy  that  made 
Logan's  words  full  and  round,  and  he  was  glad  to  have 
him  so  accessible  and  so  eager  and  purposeful.  On  the 
whole,  it  did  not  matter  to  him  why  Logan  thought  his 
work,  so  important.  No  one  else  thought  it  so,  and  cer- 
tainly no  one  else  had  taken  so  much  trouble  to  help  it 
to  find  recognition.  Logan  seemed  to  promise  him  public 
fame,  and  that  would  delight  and  reassure  his  father 
and  mother  more  than  anything  else.  They  treasured 
every  mention  of  his  name  in  the  newspapers,  pasted  the 
cuttings  in  a  book,  and  produced  it  for  every  visitor  to 
the  house. 

Struggling  for  ideas  with  which  to  match  Logan's,  he 
became  instinctively  aware  that  his  friend's  enthusiasm 
was  deliberate,  not  in  itself  faked,  but  artificially  heated. 
Behind  it  lay  a  deeper  passion,  from  which  he  was  en- 
deavouring to  divert  the  energy  it  claimed. 

Sitting  between  Logan  and  Oliver,  Mendel  could  al- 
most intercept  the  current  of  feeling  that  ran  between 
them.  It  offended  him  as  an  indecency  that  they  should 
have  so  little  control  over  themselves  as  to  reveal  their 
condition  of  mutual  obsession.  ...  It  reminded  him  of 
his  impression  of  the  police-court,  where  the  secret  sores 
of  society  were  exposed  nakedly,  and  queer,  helpless, 
shameless,  unrestrained  creatures  were  dealt  with  almost 
like  parcels  in  a  shop.  And  again  he  had  the  sensation 
of  being  bound  to  them,  of  being  confined  with  them  in 
that  little  room,  of  a  dead  pressure  being  upon  him,  until 
he  must  scream  or  go  mad. 

He  looked  at  them.  Did  they  not  feel  it  too  ?  Logan 
was  lying  back  with  his  hands  beneath  his  head  and  his 
lips  pressed  together  and  a  scowl  on  his  face,  looking  as 
though  his  thoughts  and  his  destiny  were  almost,  but,  of 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  315 

course,  not  quite  too  much  for  him.  Oliver  was  looking 
out  of  the  window  with  her  hands  on  her  hips,  humming. 
She  laughed  and  said : — 

"I'd  sooner  live  with  an  undertaker  than  an  artist. 
He  would  be  up  to  a  bit  of  fun  sometimes,  and  he'd  do 
his  work  without  making  such  a  fuss  about  it." 

"There's  an  undertaker  at  the  corner  of  the  next  street. 
You'd  better  ask  him  to  take  you  on." 

"As  a  corpse?"  asked  Mendel,  exploding  and  splutter- 
ing at  what  seemed  to  him  a  very  good  joke.  The  others 
turned  and  looked  at  him  solemnly,  but  neither  of  them 
laughed,  and  gradually  his  amusement  subsided  and  he 
said  lamely: — 

"I  thought  it  was  very  funny." 

"Oh!  for  goodness'  sake  let's  go  and  have  something 
to  eat,"  said  Oliver.  "You're  turning  the  place  into  a 
tomb  with  your  silence.  One'd  think  you  were  going  to 
be  crowned  King  of  England  instead  of  just  holding  a 
potty  little  exhibition." 

"He  is  going  to  be  crowned  King  of  Artists,"  said 
Mendel,  making  another  attempt  at  a  joke. 

"By  God!"  said  Logan,  "they'd  kill  me  if  they  knew 
what  I  was  like  inside.  Do  you  ever  feel  like  that,  Kiihler, 
that  all  the  birds  in  the  cage  would  peck  you  to  death  for 
having  got  outside  it?  I  do.  I  never  see  a  policeman 
without  feeling  he  is  going  to  arrest  me." 

"I  used  to  feel  like  that  sometimes,"  replied  Mendel, 
"until  I  was  arrested  and  realised  that  policemen  are 
just  people  like  anybody  else.  The  man  who  arrested  me 
was  a  very  nice  man." 

"Oh!  I'm  sick  of  your  feelings,"  cried  Oliver,  "and 

I  want  my  dinner." 

"All  right,"  said  Logan,  reaching  for  his  hat;  "we'll  go 
to  the  Pot-au-Feu  and  afterwards  to  the  Paris  Cafe  and 


316  MENDEL 


fish  for  critics.  I  shall  nobble  one  or  two  swells  through 
Tysoe.  We'll  pick  up  the  more  crapulous  and  lecherous 
at  the  cafe,  and  Oliver  shall  be  the  bait.  So  look  your 
prettiest,  my  dear.  .  .  .  Let's  have  a  look  at  you." 

He  lit  the  gas  and  made  her  stand  beneath  it. 

"You'll  do,"  he  said,  patting  her  cheek.    "Come  along." 

He  put  his  arm  through  hers.  She  gave  a  wriggle  of 
pleasure  and  pressed  close  to  him. 

Mendel  followed  them  downstairs  with  an  omen  at  his 
heart.  He  felt  sure  that  something  violent  would  happen. 

But  nothing  violent  did  happen.  The  evening  was  ex- 
traordinarily light-hearted  and  pleasant.  Logan  was  his 
old  self  again,  cracking  jokes,  mimicking  people  almost 
to  their  faces,  giving  absurd  descriptions  of  his  inter- 
views with  dealers  and  buyers,  and  concocting  a  burlesque 
history  of  his  life.  Mendel  had  never  laughed  so  much 
since  he  was  at  the  Detmold.  His  sides  ached,  and  he 
was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  his  countenance  when  at  the 
cafe  Logan  caught  two  critics  and  told  them  that  they 
must  make  no  mistake  this  time:  their  reputations  were 
at  stake,  nay,  the  reputation  of  art  criticism  was  at  the 
cross-roads,  and  art  was  on  the  threshold  of  its  greatest 
period,  and  criticism  should  be  its  herald,  not  its  camp- 
follower. 

"You  fellows,"  said  Logan,  "use  your  brains,  you  are 
articulate.  We  are  apt  to  get  lost  in  paint,  in  coloured 
dreams  of  to-morrow  and  the  spaces  of  the  night.  We 
lose  touch  with  the  world,  with  life.  We  are  dependent 
on  you — even  the  greatest  genius  is  dependent  on  you. 
You  are  the  real  patrons  of  art.  The  herd  follows  you. 
Criticism  must  not  shirk  its  duty.  The  kind  of  thing 
that  happened  with  Manet,  with  Whistler,  ought  not  to 
happen  again." 


THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  317 

The  two  critics  were  unused  to  such  treatment  from 
painters.  Oliver  used  her  eyes  upon  them,  detached  one 
of  them  into  a  flirtation  and  left  the  other  to  Logan's 
mercies.  Logan's  blood  was  up.  Here  was  a  game  he 
dearly  loved,  talking,  bullying,  hypnotizing  another  man 
out  of  his  individuality.  He  invented  monstrously,  out- 
rageously— concocted  a  whole  new  technique  of  paint- 
ing, the  discovery  of  which  he  ascribed  to  Mendel's 
genius,  and  ended  up  by  saying  that  painting  should  be 
to  England  what  music  had  been  to  Germany,  a  national 
and  at  the  same  time  a  universal  art. 

The  critic  had  drunk  enough  to  take  it  all  seriously, 
and  he  promised  to  call  and  see  the  work  of  both  painters. 
His  colleague,  on  the  other  hand,  made  arrangements  to 
take  Oliver  out  to  tea  and  won  her  promise  to  come  and 
see  him  at  his  flat. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Logan,  as  they  left  the  cafe 
at  closing  time.  'They  will  remember  our  names.  They 
will  forget  how  they  came  to  know  them  and  they  will 
write  about  us." 


CHAPTER  III 

SUCCESS 


T  T  was  all  very  well  for  Logan  to  talk  about  modern 
•^  England  being  a  music-hall,  but  his  methods  were 
almost  identical  with  those  of  the  publicists  whom  he  de- 
cried. The  greater  part  of  his  energy  went  to  find  a  mar- 
ket for  his  wares,  leaving  very  little  for  the  production 
of  the  wares  themselves.  Because  he  was  excited  and 
busy  and  full  of  enthusiasm,  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
he  was  in  a  vigorous  condition  and  that  his  vision  of  the 
future  of  art  would  be  expressed  in  art.  He  talked 
volubly  of  what  he  was  doing  and  what  he  intended  to 
do,  even  while  he  worked,  and  his  nerves  were  so  over- 
wrought that  he  contracted  a  horror  of  being  alone. 
Though  Oliver  jeered  at  him  as  he  worked  he  would 
not  let  her  go  out,  and  when  once  or  twice  she  insisted, 
he  could  not  work,  and  went  round  to  see  Mendel  and 
prevented  his  working  either. 

Mendel  knew  nothing  of  markets  and  dealers  and  the 
relation  of  art  to  the  world  and  its  habits  and  institu- 
tions. He  was  carried  off  his  feet  by  his  friend's  tor- 
rential energy,  believed  what  he  said,  wore  his  thoughts 
as  he  would  have  worn  his  hat,  and  lived  entirely  for  the 
exhibition  which  was  to  do  such  wonders  for  him. 
Twelve  exhibits  were  required  of  him.  He  would  have 
had  forty-eight  ready  if  he  had  been  asked  for  them. 

318 


SUCCESS  3!9 

When  he  missed  the  delight  and  the  pure  joy  he  had  had 
in  working,  he  told  himself  that  these  emotions  were 
childish  and  unworthy  of  a  man,  and  a  nuisance,  because 
they  would  have  prevented  him  from  knowing  clearly 
what  he  wanted  to  do.  He  dashed  at  his  canvas  with  a 
fair  imitation  of  Logan's  manner,  slung  the  paint  on  to  it 
with  bold  strokes,  saying  to  himself:  "There!  That 
will  astonish  them !  That  will  make  them  see  what  paint- 
ing is!" 

And  every  now  and  then  he  would  remember  that  he 
was  in  love.  He  must  paint  love  as  it  had  never  been 
painted  before. 

For  his  subject  he  chose  Ruth  in  the  cornfield,  but  very 
soon  tired  of  painting  ears  of  corn,  so  he  left  it  looking 
like  a  square  yellow  block,  and  painted  it  up  until  it  re- 
sembled a  slice  of  Dutch  cheese.  Only  when  he  came  to 
Ruth's  face  and  tried  to  make  it  express  all  the  love  with 
which  his  heart  was  overflowing  did  he  paint  with  the 
old  fastidious  care,  but  even  that  could  not  keep  him  for 
long,  and  he  returned  to  his  corn,  the  shape  of  which 
had  begun  to  fascinate  him,  and  he  wanted  somehow  to 
get  it  into  relation  with  the  hill  on  which  it  was  set.  But 
he  could  do  nothing  with  it,  and  had  to  go  back  to  Ruth 
and  love. 

The  effect  was  certainly  startling  and  novel,  and  Lo- 
gan was  enthusiastic. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "The  nearest  approach  to  mod- 
ern art  is  the  poster,  which  is  not  art,  of  course,  because 
it  is  not  designed  by  artists.  But  it  does  convey  some- 
thing to  the  modern  mind,  it  does  jog  it  out  of  its  rou- 
tine and  habitual  rut.  Now,  your  picture  wouldn't  do  for 
a  poster.  It  is  too  good,  but  it  has  the  same  kind  of  ef- 
fect. Stop!  Look!  Listen!  Wake  up,  and  see  that 
there  are  beautiful  women  in  the  world  and  blue  skies, 


320  MENDEL 


and  love  radiant  over  all!  This  woman  has  nothing  to 
do  with  what  you  felt  for  your  wife  when  you  proposed 
to  her,  or  with  what  the  parson  said  when  the  baby  died : 
she  is  the  woman  the  dream  of  whom  lives  always  in  your 
heart,  although  you  have  long  forgotten  it.  She  is  the 
beauty  you  have  passed  by  for  the  sake  of  peace  and 
quiet  and  a  balance  at  your  bank." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  a  good  picture?"  asked  Mendel. 

"I  think  it  is  a  good  beginning.  Two  or  three  more 
like  that  and  there  will  be  a  sensation.  There  will  have 
to  be  policemen  to  regulate  the  crowd." 

Mendel  caught  his  mood  of  driving  excitement  and 
really  was  convinced  that  he  had  broken  through  to  a 
style  of  his  own,  and  to  the  beginning  of  something  that 
might  be  called  modern  art. 

He  was  a  little  dashed  when,  after  Logan  had  gone, 
he  fetched  his  mother  over  to  see  it,  and  all  she  could 
find  to  say  was: — • 

"You  used  not  to  paint  like  that." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  he  said  impatiently.  "The  old 
way  was  limited,  too  limited.  It  was  all  very  well  for 
painting  the  life  down  here,  just  what  I  saw  in  front  of 
me.  This  picture  is  for  an  exhibition,  all  by  myself  with 
one  other  man." 

"Logan  ?"  asked  Golda  dubiously. 

"Yes.  It  is  a  great  honour  to  give  a  private  exhibi- 
tion like  that  at  my  age.  It  is  most  unusual.  This  is  the 
beginning  of  a  new  style.  I'm  beginning  a  new  life." 

"You  are  not  going  away?"  said  Golda  in  a  sudden 
panic  that  he  was  to  be  snatched  away  from  her. 

"I  should  never  go  away  until  you  gave  your  permis- 
sion," he  said.  "I  am  not  so  very  different  from  Harry 
that  I  want  to  go  away  and  leave  my  people." 


SUCCESS  321 

"I  never  know  what  will  come  of  that  painting  of 
yours." 

"Success !"  he  said  jestingly.  "And  fame  and  money, 
and  beautiful  ladies  in  furs  and  diamonds,  and  carriages 
and  motor-cars,  and  fine  clothes  and  rings  on  everybody's 
fingers." 

"I  would  rather  have  you  seated  quietly  in  my  kitchen 
than  all  the  gold  of  King  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba,"  said  Golda. 

"Then  please  like  my  picture." 

"I  don't  like  it." 

"Then  say  you  like  it." 

"I  don't  like  it." 

"I  shall  wipe  it  out  then." 

"Your  new  friends  will  like  it" 

"/  like  it,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  it  is  a  very  good 
picture,  but  it  means  something  to  me." 

And  he  longed  for  Morrison  to  come  and  see  it,  for  it 
was  the  first  picture  that  had  directly  to  do  with  her. 
The  portrait  of  her  was  hardly  more  than  a  drawing. 
What  he  called  an  "art  student"  might  have  done  it,  but 
this  Ruth,  he  felt,  was  the  beginning  of  his  work  as  an 
artist,  and  he  thought  fantastically  that  when  Morrison 
saw  it  she  would  see  that  he  was  to  be  treated  with  respect 
and  would  fall  in  by  his  side,  and  they  would  live  hap- 
pily, or  at  least  solidly,  ever  after. 

"Solid"  was  his  great  word,  and  he  used  it  in  many 
senses.  It  conveyed  to  his  mind  the  quality  of  which  he 
could  most  thoroughly  approve.  If  a  thing,  or  a  person, 
or  an  action,  or  an  emotion  were  what  he  called  "solid," 
then  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him  whether  it  was 
in  the  ordinary  sense  good  or  bad.  He  was  perfectly 
convinced  that  if  Morrison  could  only  be  brought  to  rea- 


322  MENDEL 

son,  then  his  life  would  solidify  and  he  would  be  able 
to  go  on  working  in  peace. 

Meanwhile  he  was  anything  but  solid.  His  work,  his 
life,  his  ideas,  his  ambition  had  all  melted  under  Logan's 
warm  touch  and  were  pouring  towards  the  crucial  exhibi- 
tion. Mendel  looked  forward  to  it  feverishly,  because 
it  was  to  put  an  end  to  his  present  condition,  in  which 
he  was  like  a  wax  candle,  luminous,  but  fast  sinking  into 
nothingness.  If  only  he  could  reach  the  exhibition  in 
time,  the  wind  of  fame  would  blow  out  the  flame  that 
was  reducing  him  and  he  would  be  able  to  start  afresh 
.  .  .  But  all  the  time  as  he  worked  words  of  Logan's 
rolled  in  his  mind,  and  had  no  meaning  whatever,  except 
that  they  made  him  think  of  music-halls  and  motor-buses 
and  women's  legs  in  tights  and  newspapers  and  electric 
sky-signs  spelling  out  words  letter  by  letter.  Out  of  this 
hotch-potch  pictures,  works  of  art,  were  to  emerge.  They 
were  to  take  their  place  in  it  and,  according  to  Logan, 
reduce  it  to  order.  But  how  was  it  possible?  ...  In 
the  quiet,  ordered,  patriarchal  world  of  the  Jews  a  rare 
nature  might  arise,  but  in  that  extraordinary  confusion 
nothing  rare  could  survive.  Beauty  could  never  compete 
on  equal  terms  with  women's  legs  in  tights  and  electric 
sky-signs;  it  could  never  produce  an  impression  on  minds 
obsessed  and  crammed  to  overflowing  with  the  multitudi- 
nous excitements  of  the  metropolis. 

Mendel  was  convinced  that  Logan  was  right,  that 
beauty  must  emerge  to  establish  authority,  and  he  thought 
of  himself  as  engaged  in  a  combat  with  a  huge,  terrible 
monster.  Every  stroke  of  his  brush  was  a  wound  upon 
its  flanks  and  an  abomination  the  less.  Yet  he  loved  all 
the  things  against  which  he  was  fighting,  because  they 
made  the  world  gay  and  stimulating  and  wonderful.  He 
could  see  no  reason  why  he  should  change  the  world. 


SUCCESS 


323 


It  was  full  enough  of  change  already.  Why,  in  his  own 
time,  the  electric  railways  and  the  motor-buses  had 
brought  an  amazing  transformation  in  the  life  of  the  East 
End.  No  one  now  worked  for  such  little  wages  as  his 
father  had  done  at  the  stick-making,  and  the  life  of  the 
streets  had  lost  its  terrors  and  dangers.  The  young  men 
had  better  things  to  do  than  to  fight  each  other  or  to  pelt 
old  Jews  with  mud,  and  there  was  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  such  changes  would  stop  where  they  were. 

However,  he  had  Logan's  word  for  it,  and  Logan  had 
given  art  a  new  importance  in  his  eyes.  He  could  not 
think  it  out  himself  without  getting  hopelessly  confused, 
and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on  with  his  work. 

Other  relief  he  had  none.  He  had  written  three  ar- 
dent letters  to  Morrison,  telling  her,  absolutely  without 
restraint,  of  his  love  and  his  need  for  her,  and  she  had 
not  replied.  He  was  too  much  hurt  to  write  again,  and 
as  he  worked  he  began  to  hate  love,  being  in  love,  and 
the  idea  of  it.  He  persuaded  himself  that  it  was  a  weak- 
ness, and  he  had  ample  reason  for  thinking  so,  when  he 
compared  his  loose  condition  with  his  old  clear  singleness 
of  purpose.  What  chiefly  exasperated  him  in  this  in- 
definite unsuccessful  love  of  his  was  that  it  exposed  him 
to  the  passion,  every  day  growing  more  furious,  between 
Logan  and  Oliver.  It  made  his  own  emotions  seem  fan- 
tastic, with  the  most  vital  current  of  his  being  pouring 
out  in  a  direction  far  removed  from  the  rest  of  his  life, 
apparently  ignoring  the  solid  virtues  of  his  Jewish  sur- 
roundings and  the  elated  vigour  of  his  career  among 
the  artists. 

"It  will  not  do!"  he  told  himself.    "I  will  not  have  i 
What  is  this  love?    Just  nonsense  invented  by  people  who 
are  afraid  of  their  passions.    A  lady  indeed?    /Jshe?    A 


324  MENDEL 


lady  is  only  a  woman  dressed  up.  She  must  learn  that 
she  is  a  woman,  or  1  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  her." 

And  sometimes  he  could  persuade  himself  that  he  had 
driven  Morrison  from  his  thoughts.  He  finished  the  por- 
trait of  her  from  memory  and  was  convinced  that  it  was 
the  end  of  her.  It  was  a  good  picture  and  pretty  enough 
to  find  a  buyer,  and  there  it  ended.  He  had  got  what 
he  wanted  of  her  and  could  pluck  her  out  of  his  thoughts. 

Logan  said  it  was  a  very  fine  picture,  a  real  piece  of 
creation. 

"And  if  that  doesn't  make  them  see  how  damned  awful 
their  Public  School  system  is  in  its  effect  on  women,  I'll 
eat  my  hat.  You've  had  your  revenge,  my  boy.  You 
have  shown  her  up.  Why  don't  you  call  it  The  Foolish 
Virgin?  Of  all  the  mischievous  twaddle  that  is  talked 
in  this  mischievous  twaddling  country  the  notion  of  love 
is  the  worst.  You  can't  love  a  woman  unless  you  live 
with  her,  and  a  woman  is  incapable  of  loving  a  man  un- 
less he  lives  with  her.  By  Jove!  We'll  hang  it  and  my 
portrait  of  Oliver  side  by  side  in  the  exhibition,  and  I'll 
call  mine  The  Woman  who  Did." 

"I  won't  have  them  side  by  side,"  said  Mendel.  "I 
want  our  pictures  kept  separate.  I  don't  want  it  said 
that  we  are  working  together." 

"But  we  arc  working  together." 

"Yes.  But  along  our  own  lines.  We're  only  together 
really  in  our  independence.  You  said  yourself  that  we 
didn't  want  to  found  a  school." 

"That's  true,"  replied  Logan,  "but  I  don't  see  why  we 
shouldn't  have  our  little  joke." 

"I  don't  joke  with  art,"  said  Mendel  grimly,  and  that 
settled  the  matter. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  set  his  will  against  his 
friend's,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  how  soft  Logan 


SUCCESS  325 

was.  Surely,  then,  it  was  he  who  was  the  leader,  he  who 
was  blazing  the  new  trail  for  art.  .  .  .  He  had  to  bow  to 
the  fact  that  Logan  had  a  programme  while  he  had  none. 
However,  having  once  asserted  his  will,  he  became  crit- 
ical, and  was  not  again  the  docile  little  disciple  he  had 
been. 

Logan  wanted  to  draw  up  a  manifesto  for  the  cata- 
logue, to  enunciate  the  first  principles  of  modern  art, 
namely,  that  a  picture  must  have  (a)  not  merely  a  sub- 
ject, but  a  conception  based  on  but  not  bounded  by  its 
subject;  (b)  form,  meaning  the  form  dictated  by  the  logic 
of  the  conception,  which  must  of  necessity  be  different 
from  the  logic  dictated  by  the  subject,  which  would  lead 
either  to  the  preconceptions  and  prejudices  of  the  schools 
or  to  irrelevant  and  non-pictorial  considerations.  All  this 
was  set  out  at  some  length,  and  appended  were  a  number 
of  maxims,  such  as: — 

"In  art  the  important  thing  is  art. 

"Abstraction  precedes  selection. 

"Art  exists  to  keep  in  circulation  those  spiritual  forces, 
such  as  aesthetic  emotion,  which  are  denied  in  ordinary 
human  communications. 

"Photography  has  released  art  from  its  ancient  burden 
of  representation,"  etc.,  etc. 

With  the  spirit  of  this  manifesto  Mendel  was  in  agree- 
ment, though  he  could  make  but  little  of  its  letter.  He 
refused  to  agree  to  it  because  so  much  talk  seemed  to 
him  unnecessary. 

"If  we  can  say  what  we  mean  to  say  in  paint,  then 
we  need  not  talk.  If  we  cannot  say  it  in  paint,  then  we 
have  no  right  to  talk." 

"You'd  soon  bring  the  world  to  a  standstill,"  said 
Logan,  "if  you  limited  talk  to  the  people  who  have  a 
right  to  it.  It  is  just  those  people  who  never  open  their 


326  MENDEL 


mouths.  I  think  it  is  criminal  of  them,  just  out  of  shy- 
ness and  disgust,  to  give  the  buffoons  and  knaves  an  open 
field." 

"All  the  same,"  grunted  Mendel,  "I  am  not  going  to 
agree  to  the  manifesto.  People  will  read  it  and  laugh  at 
it,  and  never  look  at  the  pictures.  You  seem  to  think 
of  everything  but  them.  I  wonder  you  don't  set  up  as  a 
dealer." 

"You're  overworking,"  said  Logan,  "that's  what  you 
are  doing.  And  directly  the  exhibition  is  open  I  shall 
pack  you  off  to  Brighton." 

Already  a  week  before  the  opening  they  began  to  feel 
that  the  eyes  of  London  were  upon  them.  They  crept 
about  the  streets  half -shamefacedly,  like  conspirators,  re- 
laxed and  wary,  waiting  for  the  moment  when  their  tri- 
umph should  send  their  shoulders  back  and  their  heads  up, 
and  they  would  march  together  through  a  London  which 
owed  its  salvation  to  them.  Not  since  his  portrait  had 
appeared  in  the  Yiddish  paper  had  Mendel  been  so  de- 
fiant and  so  morosely  arrogant. 

He  was  ill  with  excitement  and  could  not  do  a  stroke 
of  work.  Every  minute  of  the  day  he  spent  with  Logan 
and  Oliver,  to  whom  Tysoe  was  often  added.  He  dined 
with  them  at  the  Pot-au-Feu,  took  them  all  out  to  lunch 
and  tea  at  places  like  Richmond  and  Kew,  had  them  to 
his  house,  and  was  squeezed  by  the  approaching  success 
to  buy  Logan's  two  largest  pictures  before  the  public 
could  have  access  to  them. 

"They  are  masterpieces!"  he  cried,  swinging  his  long 
hands,  "absolute  masterpieces!  You  don't  know  how 
much  good  it  does  me  to  be  with  you  two.  Absolutely 
sincere,  you  are!  That's  what  I  like  about  you.  Sin- 
cere! One  looks  for  sincerity  in  vain  everywhere  else. 


SUCCESS 


327 


Sincerity  has  vanished  from  the  theatre,  the  novel,  music, 
poetry.  I  suppose  it  is  democracy — letting  the  public  in 
behind  the  scenes,  so  that  they  see  through  all  the  tricks." 

"An  artist  isn't  a  conjurer!"  said  Mendel. 

"That  is  just  what  artists^  have  been,"  cried  Logan, 
"and  they  can't  bluff  it  out  any  more." 

"Exactly !"  gurgled  Tysoe,  who  when  he  was  roused 
from  his  habitual  weak  lethargy  lost  control  of  his  voice, 
so  that  it  wobbled  between  a  shrill  treble  and  a  husky 
bass.  "Exactly !  That's  what  I  like  about  you  two.  No 
bluff,  no  tricks.  You  do  what  you  want  to  do  and  damn 
the  consequences.  Ha!  ha!" 

So  ill  was  Mendel  just  before  the  exhibition  that  Lo- 
gan refused  to  allow  him  anywhere  near  it,  and  insisted 
that  they  should  both  go  to  Brighton,  leaving  Oliver  to 
go  to  the  private  view  and  spy  out  the  land. 

Oliver  protested.     She  wanted  to  go  to  Brighton. 

"You  shall  have  a  new  dress  and  a  new  hat,"  said 
Logan.  "You  must  go  to  the  private  view  like  a  real 
lady.  Cluny  doesn't  know  you,  and  'you  must  go  up  to 
him  every  now  and  then  and  ask  him  in  a  loud  voice  what 
the  prices  are.  You  might  even  pretend  to  be  a  little  deaf 
and  make  him  speak  clearly  and  distinctly." 

The  idea  tickled  Mendel  so  that  he  began  to  laugh, 
could  not  stop  himself,  and  was  soon  almost  hysterical. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  asked  Oliver,  shaking 
him. 

He  gasped : — 

"I — I  was  laughing  at  the  idea  of  your  being  a  real 

lady.     Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

She  gave  him  a  clout  over  the  head  that  sobered  him. 
Logan  pounced  on  her  like  a  tiger. 

"You  devil !"  he  said.  "You  she-devil !  Don't  you  see 
the  poor  boy's  ill?" 


328  MENDEL 


"What's  that  to  me?"  she  screamed,  with  her  head 
wobbling  backwards  and  forwards  horribly  as  he  shook 
her.  "It's  n-nothing  t-to  m-me!" 

She  caught  Logan  by  the  wrist  and  sent  him  spinning, 
for  she  was  nearly  as  strong  as  he. 

"Go  to  Brighton !"  she  shouted.  "I  don't  care.  I'll  be 
glad  to  be  rid  of  you  both.  You  won't  find  me  here  when 
you  come  back,  that's  all,  you  and  your  little  hurdy- 
gurdy  boy!  You  only  need  a  monkey  and  an  organ  to 
make  you  complete.  Why  don't  you  try  it?  You'd  do 
better  at  that  than  out  of  pictures." 

Logan  could  not  contain  himself.  His  rage  burst  out 
of  him  in  a  howl  like  that  of  a  wind  in  a  chimney,  a  dis- 
mal, empty  moan.  He  stood  up,  and  the  veins  on  his  neck 
swelled  and  his  mouth  opened  and  shut  foolishly,  for  he 
could  find  nothing  to  say. 

"You  slut,  you  squeezed-out  dishclout,  you  sponge !"  he 
roared  at  last.  "Clear  out,  you  drab !  Clear  out  into  the 
streets,  you  trull!  Draggle  your  skirts  in  the  mud,  you 
filth,  you  octopus !  Sell  the  carcase  that  you  don't  know 
how  to  give,  you  marble !" 

She  flung  up  her  hands  and  sank  on  to  her  knees,  and 
let  down  her  hair,  and  moaned : — 

"OGod!    OGod!    O  God!" 

Logan's  fury  snapped. 

"For  God's  sake!  For  God's  sake!"  he  said.  "What 
has  come  over  us  ?  Oh,  God  help  us !  What  are  we  do- 
ing? What  are  we  coming  to?  Nell!  Nell!  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  saying!" 

He  went  down  on  his  knees  beside  her,  and  Mendel, 
who  had  been  numbed  but  inwardly  elated  by  the  storm, 
could  not  endure  the  craven  surrender,  the  cowardly  rec- 
onciliation, and  he  left  them. 

Out  in  the  street  he  stood  tottering  on  the  curb,  and 


SUCCESS  329 

spat  into  the  gutter,  with  extreme  precision,  between  the 
bars  of  a  grating. 

At  Brighton,  whither  they  went  next  day,  Logan  ex- 
plained himself. 

"It  is  extraordinary  how  near  love  is  to  hate,  and  how 
rotten  love  becomes  if  hate  is  suppressed — stale  and  taste- 
less and  vapid." 

"Are  you  talking  about  yourself  and  Oliver?"  asked 
Mendel. 

"Yes." 

"Then  please  don't.  I  don't  mind  what  happens  be- 
tween you  and  her  so  long  as  it  doesn't  happen  in  front 
of  me." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Logan ;  "but  it  can't  always  be  pre- 
vented. I  don't  see  the  use  of  pretence." 

"Neither  do  I.  But  some  things  are  your  own  affair, 
and  it  is  indecent  to  let  other  people  see  them." 

"Oh,  a  row's  a  row!"  said  Logan  cheerfully.  "And 
one  is  all  the  better  for  it." 

"But  if  a  woman  treated  me  like  that  I  should  never 
speak  to  her  again." 

"Love's  too  deep  for  that.  You  can't  stand  on  your 
dignity  in  love." 

"I  should  make  her  understand  once  and  for  all  that  I 
would  not  have  it." 

"Then  she  would  deceive  you.  If  you  played  the  ty- 
rant over  a  girl  like  Oliver  she  would  deceive  you." 

Mendel  stared  and  his  jaw  dropped.  Had  Logan  for- 
gotten the  night  in  Paris?  Was  he  such  a  fool  as  to  pre- 
tend he  did  not  know,  could  not  see  that  the  whole  lib- 
eration of  frenzy  in  Oliver  dated  from  that  night?  .  .  . 
Oh,  well !  It  was  no  affair  of  his. 

To  change  the  subject  he  said : — 


330  MENDEL 


"We  ought  to  get  the  press-cuttings  to-morrow.  I 
wonder  if  we  shall  sell  the  lot?  It's  a  good  beginning, 
having  tickets  on  your  two." 

"I  bet  we  sell  the  lot  in  a  week.  Oliver  has  two  of 
the  critics  in  her  pocket.  What  do  you  say  to  giving  a 
party  in  honour  of  the  event?  We  can  afford  to  for- 
give our  enemies  now,  and  there's  a  social  side  to  the 
movement  which  we  ought  not  to  neglect." 

Mendel  made  no  reply.  They  were  sitting  on  the 
front.  The  smooth,  glassy  sea,  reflecting  the  stars  and 
the  lights  of  the  pier,  soothed  and  comforted  him. 
Brighton  was  to  him  like  a  part  of  London,  and  he  sank 
drowsily  into  the  happy  fantasy  that  he  was  being  thrust 
out  of  the  streets  towards  the  stars  and  the  vast  power 
that  lay  beyond  them.  He  was  weary  of  the  streets  and 
the  clamour,  and  he  wanted  peace  and  serenity,  rest  from 
his  own  turbulence,  the  peace  which  has  no  dwelling  upon 
earth  and  lives  only  in  eternity. 

"How  good  it  would  be,"  he  said  suddenly,  "if  one 
could  just  paint  without  a  thought  of  what  became  of 
one's  pictures." 

"That's  no  good,"  replied  Logan.     "One  must  live." 

The  first  batch  of  cuttings  arrived  in  the  morning. 
They  were  brief,  for  the  most  part,  quite  respectful  and 
appreciative.  Mendel  learned,  to  his  astonishment,  that 
he  was  influenced  by  Logan,  and  one  critic  lamented  that 
a  promising  young  painter,  who  could  so  simply  render 
the  life  of  his  race,  should  have  been  infected  with  mod- 
ern heresies.  There  was  no  uproar,  neither  of  them  was 
hailed  as  a  master,  and  Logan  in  more  than  one  instance 
was  dismissed  as  an  imitator  of  Calthrop. 

"Calthrop !"  said  Logan,  gulping  down  his  disappoint- 
ment and  disgust.  "Calthrop!  Oh  well,  it  is  good 


SUCCESS  331 

enough  for  a  beginning.  It  would  have  been  very  dif- 
ferent if  you  had  let  me  print  the  manifesto.  The 
swine  need  to  be  told,  you  know.  They  want  a  lead. 
.  .  .  We'll  wait  for  the  Sunday  papers." 

London  was  curiously  unchanged  when  they  returned. 
Mendel  was  half  afraid  he  would  be  recognised  as  they 
came  out  of  Charing  Cross  Station,  but  no  one  looked 
at  him.  The  convulsion  through  which  he  had  lived  had 
left  people  going  about  their  business,  and  he  supposed 
that  if  an  earthquake  happened  in  Trafalgar  Square  peo- 
ple would  still  be  going  about  their  business  in  the  Strand. 

They  were  eager  for  Oliver's  account  of  the  private 
view,  and  took  a  taxi-cab  to  Camden  Town.  She  was 
wearing  her  new  dress  and  was  quite  the  lady:  shook 
hands  with  Mendel  and  asked  him  haughtily  in  a  mincing 
tone  how  he  was.  From  all  these  signs  he  judged  that 
the  exhibition  had  been  a  success. 

"Quite  a  lot  of  people  came,"  she  said.  "Real  swells. 
There  were  two  motor-cars  outside." 

"Yes,"  said  Logan.  "Tysoe  agreed  to  leave  his  car 
outside  for  a  couple  of  hours  to  encourage  people  to 
go  in." 

"Kuhler's  picture  of  the  girl  with  short  hair  sold  at 
once,"  she  said. 

His  pleasure  in  this  news  was  swallowed  up  in  his 
dislike  of  hearing  Morrison  spoken  of  by  her. 

"All  your  drawings  but  one  are  gone,  Logan.  I  listened 
to  what  people  said.  They  wanted  to  know  who  you 
were,  and  Cluny  said  you  had  a  great  reputation  in  the 
North.  People  laughed  out  loud  at  Kuhler's  Ruth,  and  I 
heard  one  man  say  it  was  only  to  be  expected.  He  said 
the  Jews  can  never  produce  art.  They  can  only  produce 
infant  prodigies." 


CHAPTER   IV 

REACTION 


T  OGAN  made  nearly  two  hundred  pounds  out  of  the 
•*— '  exhibition  and  Mendel  over  a  hundred.  His  fam- 
ily rejoiced  in  his  triumph.  A  hundred  pounds  was 
a  good  year's  income  to  them.  They  rejoiced,  but  it 
was  an  oppression  to  him  to  go  back  to  them  and  to 
talk  in  Yiddish,  in  which  there  were  no  words  for  all 
that  he  cared  for  most.  Impossible  to  explain  to  them 
about  art,  for  they  had  neither  words  nor  mental  con- 
ceptions. Art  was  to  them  only  a  wonderful  way  of 
making  money,  a  kind  of  magic  that  went  on  in  the 
West  End,  where,  once  a  man  was  established,  he  had 
only  to  open  his  pockets  for  money  to  fall  into  them. 

Up  to  a  point  he  could  share  their  elation,  for  in 
his  bitter  moments  he  too  was  predatory.  If  the  Chris- 
tian world  would  not  admit  him  on  equal  terms  he  had 
no  compunction  about  despoiling  it. 

The  words  "infant  prodigy"  stuck  in  his  throat,  and 
with  his  family  it  seemed  indeed  impossible  that  the 
Jews  could  produce  art.  How  could  they,  when  they  had 
no  care  for  it?  And  how  had  he  managed  to  find  his 
way  to  it?  ...  Going  back  over  his  career  step  by  step 
it  seemed  miraculous,  and  as  though  there  were  a  special 
providence  governing  his  life — Mr.  Kuit,  the  Scotch  trav- 
eller, Mitchell,  Logan,  all  were  as  though  they  had  been 

332 


REACTION 


333 


pushed  forward  at  the  critical  moment.  And  for  what? 
Merely  to  exploit  an  infant  prodigy  with  a  skilful  trick? 
.  .  .  He  could  not,  he  would  not  believe  it.  The  pres- 
sure that  had  driven  him  along,  the  pressure  within  him- 
self, had  been  too  great  for  that,  just  to  squeeze  him 
out  into  the  open  and  to  fill  his  pockets  with  money. 
There  was  more  meaning  in  it  all  than  that,  more  shape, 
more  design. 

Yet  when  he  considered  his  work  he  was  lacerated 
with  doubt.  It  ended  so  palpably  in  the  portrait  of  his 
father  and  mother,  and  he  knew  that  he  could  never 
go  back  to  that  again.  An  art  that  was  limited  to  Jewry 
was  no  art.  Among  the  Jews  no  light  could  live.  They 
would  not  have  it.  They  would  snuff  it  out,  for  it  was 
their  will  to  dwell  in  dark  places  and  to  wait  upon  the 
illumination  that  never  came,  as  of  course  it  never  would 
until  they  looked  within  themselves. 

Within  himself  he  knew  there  was  a  most  vivid  light 
glowing,  a  spark  which  only  needed  a  breath  of  air  upon 
it  to  burst  into  flame.  He  was  increasingly  conscious 
of  it,  and  it  made  him  feel  transparent,  as  though  noth- 
ing could  be  hidden  from  those  who  looked  his  way. 
What  was  there  to  hide?  If  there  was  evil,  it  lived  but 
a  little  while  and  was  soon  spent,  while  that  which  was 
of  worth  endured  and  grew  under  recognition. 

Thence  came  his  devotion  to  Logan,  who  simply  ig- 
nored everything  that  apparently  gave  offence  to  others 
and  saluted  the  rare,  rich  activity.  It  was  nothing  to 
Logan  that  he  was  a  Jew  and  poor  and  uneducated :  he 
was  educated  in  art,  and  what  more  did  he  want  ?  Logan 
was  a  friend  indeed,  and  had  proved  it  over  and  over 
again.  He  would  take  his  doubts  to  Logan  and  they 
would  be  healed,  but  first  he  must  go  to  the  exhibition, 
the  thought  of  which  made  him  unhappy  and  uneasy. 


334  MENDEL 


Cluny  received  him  with  open  arms : — 

"A  most  successful  exhibition.  A  great  success.  I 
hope  you  will  let  me  have  some  of  your  work  by  me.  A 
most  charming  exhibition.  There  was  only  one  mistake, 
if  I  may  say  so:  the  Ruth." 

Mendel  walked  miserably  through  the  rooms.  All  Lo- 
gan's pictures  were  in  the  best  light:  his  own  were  half 
in  shadow. 

"Mr.  Logan  has  the  making  of  a  great  reputation," 
said  Cluny,  "a  very  great  reputation." 

"Oh,  very  clever!"  said  Mendel,  suddenly  exasperated 
more  by  Logan's  pictures  than  by  the  dealer. 

Indeed,  "very  clever"  was  the  right  description  for 
Logan's  work.  It  attracted  and  charmed  and  tickled, 
but  it  did  not  satisfy.  The  pictures  gave  Mendel  the 
same  odd  sense  of  familiarity  as  the  picture  in  Camden 
Town  had  done,  and  turning  suddenly,  his  eye  fell  on 
his  own  unhappy  Ruth.  The  figure  was  shockingly  bad. 
He  acknowledged  the  simpering  sentimentality  of  the 
face.  And  he  had  been  trying  to  paint  love!  But  in 
spite  of  the  figure,  the  picture  held  him.  It  was  to 
him  the  matrix  of  the  whole  exhibition.  Wiping  out 
of  consideration  his  own  early  drawings,  it  explained 
and  accounted  for  every  other  piece  of  work.  The  least 
dexterous  of  them  all,  it  had  freshness  and  vitality  and 
a  certain  thrust  of  simplification  which  everything  else 
lacked.  It  was  "solid,"  and  worth  all  Logan's  pictures 
put  together. 

"Very  good  prices,"  said  the  dealer.  "Very  good 
indeed." 

Mendel  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  wanted  to  study 
his  Ruth,  to  find  out  its  precise  meaning  for  him,  and, 
if  possible,  in  what  mysterious  part  of  his  talent  it  had 
originated. 


REACTION  335 


It  had  made  him  feel  happy  again  and  had  restored 
his  confidence.  He  was  serenely  sure  of  himself,  without 
arrogance.  He  was  almost  humble,  yet  tantalised  be- 
cause he  could  not  think  of  a  whole  picture  in  the  terms 
of  that  one  piece  of  paint.  He  remembered  the  strange 
excitement  in  which  he  had  conceived  it,  the  almost 
nonchalance  with  which  he  had  executed  it.  And  to 
think  that  not  a  soul  had  seen  it!  The  fools!  The 
fools ! 

He  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  looking  so  intently  at  his 
own  work.  The  next  day  he  was  back  again  and  told 
Cluny  that  it  was  not  for  sale. 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  seller,  Mr.  Kiihler,"  said  Cluny. 

"It's  not  for  sale,"  repeated  Mendel. 

He  went  every  day  and  had  no  other  thought.  He 
wandered  about  in  a  dream,  not  seeing  people  in  the 
streets,  not  hearing  when  he  was  spoken  to. 

On  the  fifth  day  as  he  entered  Cluny's  he  began  to 
tremble,  and  he  fell  against  a  man  who  was  coming 
out.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  heart  and  beat  at  his  tem- 
ples. He  knew  why  it  was.  The  air  seemed  full  of  an 
enchantment  that  settled  upon  him  and  drew  him  towards 
the  gallery.  He  knew  he  was  going  to  see  her,  and 
she  was  there  with  Clowes,  standing  in  front  of  his 
Ruth.  Clowes  was  laughing  at  it,  but  Morrison,  with 
brows  knit,  obviously  angry,  was  trying  to  explain  it. 

"I'm  trying  to  explain  the  cornfield  to  Clowes,"  she 
said.  "Do  come  and  help  me." 

"I  can't  explain  it  myself,"  he  said,  marvelling  at  the 
ease  of  the  meeting.  At  once  he  and  she  were  together 
and  Clowes  was  out  of  it,  like  a  dweller  in  another 
world.  , 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  do  things  you  can  t  ex- 
plain," said  Clowes. 


336  MENDEL 


"Then  you  are  wiping  out  Michael  Angelo,  and  El 
Greco,  and  Blake,  and  Piero." 

"Yes,"  said  Mendel.  "You  are  wiping  out  inspiration 
altogether." 

"Oh !  if  you  think  you  are  inspired  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say,"  replied  Clowes  rather  tartly.  She  had  felt 
instinctively  that  Mendel  and  Morrison  would  meet  at 
the  gallery,  and  was  annoyed  all  the  same  that  it  had 
happened.  She  knew  how  they  were  regarded,  and  she 
herself  did  not  approve.  Morrison  knew  how  impossi- 
ble it  was,  and  Clowes  thought  she  ought  not  to  allow 
it  to  go  on. 

Clowes  also  recognised  how  completely  she  was  out 
of  it,  and  she  made  excuses  and  left  them. 

"You  are  the  only  one  who  likes  it,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  like  it,  but  I  know  that  it  isn't  bad.  It  isn't 
good  either,  but  it  is  real  and  it  is  you." 

"I  want  no  more  than  that,"  he  said,  "from  you." 

In  his  mind  he  had  prepared  all  sorts  of  reproaches 
for  his  meeting  with  her,  but  they  fell  away  from  his 
lips.  He  could  only  accept  that  it  was  good  and  sweet 
and  natural  to  be  with  her. 

He  told  her  quite  simply  how  he  had  come  to  paint 
the  picture,  and  how  he  had  tried  to  paint  his  love  for 
her.  She  smiled  and  shook  away  her  smile. 

"I'm  glad  it  isn't  anything  like  that  really,"  she  said. 

"I  tried  to  tell  you  what  it  was  like  when  I  wrote 
to  you." 

"Yes." 

That  was  all  she  could  say.  She  had  been  very  un- 
happy, often  desperately  wretched,  because  her  instinct 
fought  so  furiously  against  the  idea  of  love  with  him 
whom  she  loved. 

"The  picture  has  made  me  very  happy,"  she  added. 


REACTION 


337 


"It  means  that  what  I  have  been  wanting  to  happen  to 
you  has  happened.  You  are  different,  you  know.  I  can 
talk  to  you  so  much  more  easily." 

He  suggested  that  they  should  walk  in  the  Park  and 
spend  the  day  together,  and  she  consented,  glad  that 
all  the  reproaches  and  storms  she  had  dreaded  should 
be  so  lightly  brushed  away. 

Happy,  happy  lovers,  for  whom  nothing  can  defile 
the.  heavenly  beauty  of  this  earth;  happy,  from  whom 
Time  streams  away,  bearing  with  it  all  the  foolish,  rest- 
less activity  of  men;  happy,  for  whom  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  the  world  are  as  though  they  had  never  been! 
Thrice  happy  two,  who  in  your  united  spirit  bear  so 
easily  all  the  beauty,  all  the  suffering,  all  the  sorrow  in 
the  world,  and  bring  it  forth  in  joy,  the  flower  of  life 
that  cometh  up  as  a  vision,  fades,  and  sheds  its  seed 
upon  the  rich,  warm  soil  of  humanity.  Emblem  of  im- 
mortality for  ever  shining  in  the  union  of  spirits,  in  the 
enchantment  of  two  who  are  together  and  in  love. 

So  happy  were  they  that  they  wandered  for  the  most 
part  in  silence  through  the  avenues  and  over  the  grassy 
spaces  of  the  Park. 

Of  the  two,  she  had  the  better  brain,  and,  indeed,  the 
stronger  character.  She  had  been  toughened  in  the  strug- 
gle to  break  out  of  the  web  of  hypocrisy  and  meaningless 
tradition  of  gentility  in  which  her  family  was  enmeshed, 
and  the  freedom  she  had  won  was  very  precious  to  her. 
She  kept  it  as  a  touchstone  by  which  to  measure  her 
acquaintance  and  her  experience,  and,  using  it  now,  she 
realised  that  there  were  two  distinct  delights  in  being 
with  Mendel  on  this  tender  autumn  day;  one  tempted 
her  with  its  promise  of  furious  joys  and  wild,  baffling 


338  MENDEL 


emotions.  It  seduced  her  with  its  suggestion  that  this 
way  lay  kindness,  the  gift  to  him  of  his  desire,  peace, 
and  satisfaction.  But  behind  the  suggestion  of  kindness 
lay  a  menace  to  her  freedom,  which,  being  so  much  more 
precious  than  herself,  she  longed  for  him  to  share,  as 
in  the  keen  happiness  of  that  day  he  had  done.  That 
was  the  other  delight,  more  serene  and  more  rare,  in- 
finitely more  powerful,  and  she  would  not  have  it  sac- 
rificed to  the  less.  The  gift  of  herself  to  which  she 
was  tempted  must  mean  the  blending  of  her  freedom 
with  his,  for  without  that  there  would  be  no  true  gift, 
only  a  surrender. 

She  could  not  think  it  out  or  make  it  clear  to  herself, 
but  she  knew  that  it  was  surrender  he  was  asking,  and 
she  knew  that  if  she  surrendered  she  would  be  no  more 
to  him  in  a  little  while  than  the  other  women  of  pas- 
sage with  whom  his  life  was  darkened. 

Ought  she  not  then  to  tell  him,  to  keep  him  from 
living  in  false  hopes?  She  persuaded  herself  that  she 
ought,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  spoil  this  delicious  day. 
It  was  such  torture  to  her  when  he  blazed  out  at  her  and 
he  became  ugly  with  egoism. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "the  Ruth  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence. I  can't  let  you  go  now,  because  you  are  the  only 
one  who  has  really  understood  my  work.  I  am  almost 
frightened  of  it  myself,  and  it  makes  me  feel  desperately 
lonely  when  I  think  of  all  I  shall  have  to  go  through 
to  get  at  what  it  really  means." 

"No.  If  you  want  me  like  that  I  don't  want  you  to 
let  me  go,"  she  said,  "for  it  is  so  important." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "It  may  mean  an  entirely  new  kind 
of  picture,  for  I. don't  know  anybody's  work  that  has 
quite  what  is  hammering  away  in  my  head  to  get  out.  It 
must  be  because  you  love  me  that  you  can  feel  it  when 


REACTION 


339 


no  one  else  can.  Even  to  Logan  it  is  only  like  a  superior 
poster." 

How  adorable  he  was  in  this  mood  of  simplicity  and 
humility!  She  could  relax  her  vigilance,  and  sway  un- 
reservedly to  his  mood  and  give  him  all  that  he  required 
of  her,  her  clearness,  her  sensitive  purity. 

"You  are  like  no  other  woman  in  the  world  to  me," 
he  went  on.  "You  fill  me  with  the  most  wonderful  joy, 
like  a  Cranach  or  a  Diirer  drawing.  I  can  forget  al- 
most that  you  are  a  woman,  so  that  it  is  a  most  wonder- 
ful surprise  that  you  are  one  after  all.  You  are  the 
only  person  in  the  world  whom  I  can  place  side  by  side 
with  my  mother." 

"You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  me,"  she  said,  "to  have 
a  friend  so  strong  and  frank  as  you  are." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  her  arm  won- 
deringly,  as  if  to  satisfy  himself  that  she  was  really 
there,  much  as  on  his  first  visit  to  Hampstead  he  had 
touched  the  grass. 

"I  think  I  shall  live  to  be  very  old,"  he  said,  "and 
you  will  be  just  the  same  to  me  then  as  you  are  now."' 

"Oh,  Mendel!" 

"Say  that  again!"  he  said,  but  she  could  not  speak. 
Her  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears  and  she  hung  her 
head.  She  longed  to  take  him  to  her  arms  and  to  fondle 
him,  to  make  him  young,  to  charm  away  the  pitiful  old 
weary  helplessness  that  he  had.  Reacting  from  this  mood 
in  her,  which  he  did  not  understand  and  took  for  the 
first  symptoms  of  surrender,  he  became  wild  and  boastful, 
and  clowned  like  a  silly  boy  to  attract  her  attention. 

Her  will  set  against  him.  She  could  not  endure  the 
sudden  swoop  from  the  highest  sympathy  to  the  gal- 
lantry of  the  streets,  and  when  he  was  weary  of  his 


340  MENDEL 


tricks  she  tried  to  bring  him  to  his  senses  by  asking  him 
suddenly : — 

"Is  Logan  a  nice  man  ?" 

"He  is  my  best  friend.  He  has  wonderful  ideas  and 
energy  like  a  steam-engine,  and  he  has  suffered  too.  He 
is  not  like  the  art  students  who  expect  painting  pic- 
tures to  be  as  easy  as  knitting.  He  could  have  been 
almost  anything,  but  he  believes  that  art  is  the  most  im- 
portant thing  of  all.  He  has  made  a  great  difference 
to  me,  by  teaching  me  to  be  independent.  ...  I  will  take 
you  to  see  him  one  day." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  him,  because  he  has  made  a 
great  difference  in  you." 

"He  steals." 

That  gave  Morrison  a  shock,  for  Mendel  seemed  to 
be  stating  the  fact  as  a  recommendation. 

"Yes.  When  he  has  no  money  he  steals.  I  went 
with  him  once  and  we  stole  some  reproductions." 

She  was  sorry  she  had  mentioned  Logan.  Mendel 
was  a  different  creature  at  once.  Their  glamourous 
happiness  was  gone.  Logan  seemed  to  have  stalked  in 
between  them  and  the  purity  of  their  delight  withered 
away. 

He  felt  it  as  strongly  as  she,  but  thought  she  was 
deliberately  escaping  from  him,  that  she  was  fickle  and 
could  not  stay  out  the  day's  happiness.  Women,  he  knew, 
were  like  that.  They  gave  out  just  as  the  best  was  still 
to  come. 

It  was  dusk  and  they  were  in  a  lonely  glade.  He 
pounced  on  her  and  drew  her  to  him : — 

"I  want  you  to  kiss  me." 

"No— no!" 

"Yes — yes — yes!  I  say  you  shall.  I  will  not  have 
you  let  it  all  slip  away." 


REACTION  341 


"Don't!  Don't!"  she  said,  in  a  passion  of  resentment. 
He  was  spoiling  it  all.  How  could  he  be  so  crude  and 
insensible  after  this  matchless  day? 

At  last  he  was  convinced  of  her  anger. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  want 
anything  like  that?" 

"It  has  spoiled  the  day  for  me,"  she  answered,  "or 
almost,  for  nothing  could  really  spoil  it." 

She  walked  on  and  he  stood  still  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  ran  after  her. 

"Did  you  .  .  .  did  you  hate  me  then?" 

"No,  I  didn't  hate  you.  I  hated  myself  more  because 
I  can't  say  what  I  feel." 

"If  you  don't  love  me  like  that,"  he  said,  "I  love  you 
all  the  same.  I  must  see  you  often — always.  I  can't 
live,  I  can't  work,  if  you  don't  let  me  see  you.  .  .  .  No. 
That  isn't  true.  I  shall  work  whatever  happens." 

How  she  loved  his  honesty!  He  was  making  no  at- 
tempt to  creep  behind  her  defences.  They  had  baffled 
him,  and  he  counted  his  wounds  cheerfully. 

"If  you  don't  love  me  like  that,"  he  went  on  excitedly, 
"it  doesn't  make  any  difference.  You  are  my  love  all 
the  same.  You  are  in  all  my  thoughts,  in  every  drop 
of  my  blood,  and  you  can  do  with  me  as  you  will.  If 
you  don't  love  me  like  that  I  will  never  touch  you.  I 
can  understand  your  not  wanting  to  touch  me,  because 
I  am  dirty.  I  am  dirty  in  my  soul.  I  will  never  touch 
you.  I  promise  that  I  will  never  touch  you,  and  what 
you  do  not  like  in  me  you  shall  never  see.  .  .  ." 

She  broke  down,  and  burst  into  an  unrestrained  fit  of 
weeping.  Why  could  she  not  make  clear  to  him,  to 
herself,  what  she  felt  so  clearly?  ...  Oh!  She  knew 
she  ought  to  tell  him  to  go,  to  spare  him  all  the  suffering 
that  he  must  endure,  but  also  she  knew  by  the  measure 


342  MENDEL 


of  her  need  for  him  how  sorely  he  must  need  her.  Their 
need  of  each  other  was  too  profound,  too  strong,  too  pas- 
sionate, easily  to  find  its  way  to  surface  life,  nor  could  it 
be  satisfied  with  sweets  too  easily  attained.  .  .  .  She 
must  wait.  To  leave  him  or  to  surrender  to  him  would 
be  a  betrayal  of  that  high  mystery  wherein  they  had 
their  spiritual  meeting. 

"I  shall  win,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  shall  win.  I 
know  I  shall  win."  ^ 

And  she  amazed  him  with  her  sudden  lightness  of 
heart.  She  laughed  and  told  him  how  solemnly  Clowes 
was  taking  it  all,  and  how  the  loose-tongued  busybodies 
were  talking.  .  .  .  As  if  it  mattered  what  they  said !  He 
mattered  more  than  all  of  them,  because  they  took  easily 
what  was  next  to  hand  and  grew  fat  on  it,  while  he 
fought  his  way  upward  step  by  step  and  was  never  satis- 
fied, and  would  fight  his  way  always  step  by  step  with 
bloody  pains  and  suffering. 

"Oh,  Mendel!"  she  cried;  "I'm  so  proud — so  proud 
•of  you." 

She  was  too  swift  for  him.  He  came  lumbering  after 
her,  puzzled,  amazed,  confounded  at  finding  in  this  girl 
something  that  was  so  much  more  than  woman,  some- 
thing that  could  actually  live  on  the  high  level  of  his 
creative  thought,  something  as  necessary  to  his  thought 
.as  dew  to  the  grass  and  the  ripening  corn. 


CHAPTER   V 

LOGAN    GIVES   A    PARTY 


r  I^HE  impulse  to  take  his  doubts  to  Logan  endured, 
•*•  and  was  aggravated  by  the  wretchedness  into  which 
Mendel  was  plunged  by  Morrison's  return  and  her  pow- 
erful effect  upon  his  life.  He  raged  against  himself 
as  an  idiot  and  a  fool  for  taking  her  seriously  and  for 
believing  that  she  could  realise  his  work  when  as  yet 
he  understood  it  so  little  himself.  If  it  was  love,  then 
have  the  love-making  and  get  it  over.  If  she  refused, 
then  let  her  go!  What  did  she  mean  by  slipping  away 
just  when  the  day's  happiness  began  to  demand  utter- 
ance, closeness,  intimacy,  the  promise  of  the  dearest  and 
most  comfortable  joys? 

He  knew  that  he  was  deceiving  himself,  that  she  could 
do  just  as  she  liked  and  it  would  make  no  difference,  but 
he  also  knew  that  he  mistrusted  her.  In  his  heart  he 
suspected  her  of  being  one  of  those  who  like  to  pretend 
that  life  can  be  all  roses  and  honey,  that  there  can  be 
summer  without  winter,  day  without  night.  .  .  .  Just  a 
pretty  English  girl,  he  called  her,  and,  in  his  most  bitter 
moods,  he  regarded  himself  as  caught;  and  in  that  there 
was  a  certain  sardonic  satisfaction.  It  seemed  appro- 
priate that,  having  known  many  women  without  a  parti- 
cle of  love  for  them,  he  should  be  in  love  with  a  woman 
who  did  not  wish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him. 

343 


344  MENDEL 


When  he  told  Logan  about  it,  that  experienced  in- 
dividual smoked  three  cigarettes  and  was  silent  for  ten 
minutes  by  the  clock. 

"It  won't  do,"  he  said;  "give  it  up.  You're  in  love 
with  her.  Oh  yes !  You  were  bound  to  have  your  taste 
of  it,  being  so  young.  But,  for  God's  sake,  keep  it 
clear  of  your  work.  I  know  it  is  very  delightful  and 
all  that,  and  like  the  first  blush  of  spring,  and  that  she 
seems  to  understand  everything.  First  love  is  always 
the  same.  She  seems  to  understand,  but  so  do  the  vio- 
lets in  the  woods,  and  the  apple-blossom  in  an  orchard, 
and  the  singing  birds  on  a  spring  morning.  They  all 
seem  to  understand  everything.  Life  is  solved:  there 
are  no  more  problems,  and  the  rarest  flower  of  all  is 
the  human  heart.  Yet  the  violets  and  the  apple-blossoms 
fade  and  the  birds  sing  no  more :  the  spring  passes  and 
the  summer  is  infernally  hot  and  stale,  and  winter  comes 
at  last.  So  it  is  with  love  and  women.  Nothing  en- 
dures but  art,  and  that  they  are  physically  incapable  of 
understanding.  My  God!  Don't  I  know  it?  A  picture 
of  mine  means  no  more  to  Oliver  than  my  boot  does — • 
rather  less,  because  my  boot  is  warmed  with  the  warmth 
of  my  body.  That's  all  she  understands." 

He  looked  down  at  the  boots  and  fidgeted  with  his 
hands. 

"Yes.    That's  all  she  understands,"  he  repeated. 

He  was  very  haggard,  and  he  looked  up  at  Mendel  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  say  something  more  than  he 
could  get  into  words;  but  Mendel  was  preoccupied  with 
his  own  perplexities,  and  Logan's  appealing  glance  was 
lost  upon  him. 

"I'm  older  than  you,"  Logan  continued,  "and  of  course 
it  is  difficult  for  me  to  say  anything  that  will  be  of  any 
use  to  you,  but  a  man  like  you  ought  not  to  let  life  get 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  345 

in  his  way.  It  isn't  worth  it.  Life  is  only  valuable  to 
you  as  a  condition  of  working.  Nothing  in  it  ought  to 
be  valuable  for  its  own  sake.  Do  you  hear?  You  ought 
never  to  have  anything  in  your  life  that  you  couldn't  sac- 
rifice— couldn't  do  without." 

He  seemed  to  be  rather  thinking  aloud  than  talking, 
and  something  indescribably  solemn  in  his  voice  made 
Mendel  shiver.  He  had  hardly  heard  what  Logan  was 
saying  and,  thinking  he  must  be  in  a  draught,  he  looked 
towards  the  window. 

Logan  went  on: — 

"She'll  be  back  in  a  moment.  We  don't  often  get  the 
opportunity  to  talk  like  this.  She  has  begun  to  read 
books,  and  thinks  she  knows  about  pictures  now.  She 
won't  leave  us  alone.  That  damned  critic  has  been  stuff- 
ing her  up  and  she  reads  all  his  articles." 

He  made  a  grimace  of  weary  disgust. 

"I  care  about  you,  Kiihler,  almost  more  than  I  do 
about  myself,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal.  Don't  let 
this  love  business  get  mixed  up  with  your  work,  espe- 
cially if,  as  you  say,  it  is  Platonic — that  is  the  worst 
poison  of  all — almost,  almost.  .  .  .  Still,  I'd  like  to  see 
the  girl.  Bring  her  to  the  party.  We  might  join  up  and 
make  a  quartette — if  she  can  stand  Oliver.  Women  can't, 
as  a  rule.  They  don't  like  full-blooded  people  of  their 
own  sex." 

"She  wants  to  know  you,"  replied  Mendel  half-heart- 
edly. "I'm  always  talking  to  her  about  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Logan.     "Bring  her  to  the  party." 

Downstairs  the  front  door  slammed  and  Logan  gave 
a  nervous  start.  His  whole  aspect  changed.  He  lost 
the  drooping  solemnity  that  had  come  over  him  and 
was  stiff,  quick,  and  alert,  and  prepared  to  be  droll, 


346  MENDEL 


as  he  was  when  it  was  a  question  of  humbugging  Tysoe 
and  Cluny. 

Oliver  came  in  with  a  bottle  of  wine  under  each 
arm.  She  was  in  very  good  spirits  and  looking  remark- 
ably handsome. 

"Hello,  Kiihler!"  she  cried.  "How  do  you  like  being 
a  success?  We're  full  of  beans.  We're  going  to  take  a 
house.  Did  Logan  tell  you?" 

"No,"  said  Mendel.     "I  hadn't  heard  of  it." 

"Well,  it's  true.  We've  done  with  the  slums  and 
being  poor  and  all  that.  We're  going  to  have  a  house 
and  I'm  going  to  have  a  servant,  and  I  shall  have  noth- 
ing to  do  all  day  but  eat  chocolates  and  read  novels 
and  have  people  to  tea." 

"So  you're  going  to  be  a  real  lady." 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  wear  a  wedding-ring,  and  we're 
going  to  give  out  that  we're  married,  so  that  Mrs.  Tysoe 
can  call  on  me." 

"You're  not  going  to  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  snapped 
Logan. 

"I  am.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  have  a  beastly  time 
just  because  you  won't  marry  me,  setting  yourself  up 
against  the  world  and  saying  you  don't  believe  in  mar- 
riage." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  more  tied  to  you  than  I  am,"  said 
Logan,  endeavouring  to  adopt  a  reasonable  tone. 

He  was  curiously  subdued,  and  never  took  his  eyes  off 
her.  Mendel  had  the  impression  that  they  must  recently 
have  had  a  quarrel.  Logan  was  endeavouring  to  placate 
her,  but  she  was  constantly  aggressive.  She  seemed  to 
have  gained  in  personality  and  to  be  possessed  of  a  defi- 
nite will.  She  was  no  longer  shrouded  in  the  mists  of 
sensuality,  but  stood  out  clearly,  a  figure  of  such  vitality 
that  Mendel  could  no  longer  keep  his  lazy  contempt  for 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  347 

her.  Almost  admirable  she  was,  yet  he  found  her  de- 
testable. He  thought  she  should  be  thanking  her  lucky 
stars  for  having  found  such  a  man  as  Logan ;  she  should 
be  taking  gratefully  what  he  chose  to  give  her,  instead 
of  setting  herself  up  and  putting  forward  her  own  vulgar 
needs.  If  a  woman  threw  in  her  lot  with  an  artist,  she 
ought  to  revel  in  her  freedom  from  the  petty  interests 
and  insignificant  courtesies  that  made  the  lives  of  ordi- 
nary women  so  humiliating. 

What  was  she  up  to?  He  knew  that  there  was  a 
deeper  purpose  in  her,  something  very  definite,  for  which 
she  had  been  able  to  summon  up  her  raw  vitality.  He 
could  understand  Logan  being  fascinated.  If  he  had 
been  in  love  with  the  woman  he  would  have  been  the 
same,  and  his  mind  would  have  been  swamped  by  sen- 
sual curiosity. 

Before,  he  had  always  been  rather  mystified  to  know 
what  Logan  saw  in  the  woman,  but  now  the  infatuation 
was  comprehensible  to  him.  His  mind  played  about  it 
with  a  strange  delight,  and  he  was  even  envious  of  Lo- 
gan to  be  consumed  in  the  heart  of  that  mystery  upon 
whose  fringes  he  himself  was  held.  And  he  thought 
that  if  he  brought  Morrison  to  see  them  he  would  be 
able  to  understand  her  better,  and  might  even  be  able 
to  place  his  finger  on  the  weak  place  in  her  armour. 

"You  two  do  give  me  the  pip,"  said  Oliver.  "You 
sit  there  as  glum  and  silent  as  though  you  were  in  church. 
Taking  yourselves  too  seriously,  I  call  it." 

Still  in  his  forbearing  tone  Logan  said : — 

"We  talk  of  things  which  are  very  hard  to  under- 
stand." 

"Oh,  give  it  up!"  she  said.  "Leave  all  that  to  folk 
with  brains  and  education.  Why  can't  you  just  paint 


348  MENDEL 


without  talking  about  it  ?  You'd  get  twice  as  much  work 
done." 

"Because,  don't  you  see,  unless  you're  a  blasted  ama- 
teur, you  can't  paint  without  rousing  all  sorts  of  questions 
in  your  mind — questions  that  don't  seem  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  painting;  but  unless  you  attempt  to  answer 
them  there's  no  satisfaction  in  working." 

"Oh,  cheese  it!"  she  said;  "I  know  what  the  critics 
look  for,  and  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  brains.  It  is 
like  being  in  love." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  asked  Logan  with  sudden  heat; 
but  before  she  could  answer  him  Mendel  had  exploded : — 

"It  is  nothing  at  all  like  being  in  love.  That  is  what 
all  the  beastly  Christians  think  of — being  in  love.  And 
they  want  art  always,  always  to  remind  them  of  that — 
how  they  have  been,  are,  or  will  be  in  love,  as  they  call 
it.  And  what  they  call  being  in  love  is  nothing  but  a 
filthy  lecherous  longing,  which  is  a  thousand  miles  be- 
neath love,  and  twenty  thousand  miles  beneath  art,  which 
is  so  rare,  so  noble,  so  beautiful  a  mystery  that  only 
those  whom  God  has  chosen  can  understand  it  at  all; 
for  while  you  are  in  this  state  of  longing  you  can  under- 
stand, you  can  feel  nothing  at  all  except  a  hungry  delight 
in  yourself  and  your  own  sticky  sensations.  What  can 
women  know  of  art?  It  needs  strength  and  will,  and 
women  have  neither;  they  have  only  obstinate  fancies." 

When  he  had  done  he  was  so  astonished  at  himself 
that  he  gasped  for  breath.  Logan  and  Oliver,  gaping 
at  him,  seemed  ridiculous  and  little.  Talking  to  them 
was  a  waste  of  breath,  because  when  she  was  there  Lo- 
gan was  not  himself,  but  only  a  kind  of  excrescence  upon 
her  monstrous  vitality.  The  room  seemed  to  stink.  It 
was  airless  and  reeking  with  sex.  He  must  get  out  and 
away,  under  the  sky,  among  the  trees,  upon  his  beloved 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  349 

Hampstead.  .  .  .  Without  another  word  he  stalked 
away. 

"Well!  I  never!"  exclaimed  Oliver.  "Is  Kiihler  in 
love?" 

"Oh!  shut  up!"  said  Logan  wearily. 

For  the  party  the  room  was  cleared  and  a  pianola 
was  hired.  The  guests  were  invited  to  bring  their  own 
glasses  and  drink,  and  also  any  friends  they  liked.  The 
result  was  that  half  the  habitues  of  the  Paris  Cafe  turned 
up,  including  Jessie  Petrie,  Mitchell,  and  Thompson,  who 
was  over  for  a  short  time  from  Paris,  very  important 
and  mysterious  because  he  had  something  to  do  with  a 
forthcoming  exhibition  of  Modern  French  Art  which  was 
to  knock  London  silly.  And  there  was  a  rumour  that 
Calthrop  himself  was  coming. 

Oliver  wore  a  new  evening  dress,  which  she  had  in- 
sisted on  buying  because  she  was  very  proud  of  her  bust 
and  arms.  The  dress  was  of  emerald  green  silk  and 
she  looked  very  lovely  in  it — "Like  a  water  nymph," 
said  Logan,  and  he  went  out  and  bought  her  a  string 
of  red  corals  to  give  the  finishing  touch. 

"You  won't  have  much  of  this  kind  of  thing  when 
we  move,"  he  said.  "It  is  to  be  farewell  to  Bohemia. 
I'm  going  to  settle  down  to  work.  I've  taught  Kiihler 
a  thing  or  two,  but  he  has  taught  me  how  to  work." 

"Damn  Kiihler!    I  hate  him,"  said  Oliver. 

"You  can  hate  him  as  much  as  you  choose.  It  won't 
hurt  him  or  me.  I'm  not  a  Hercules,  and  my  work 
and  you  are  about  as  much  as  I  can  manage." 

"You're  a  nice  one  to  be  giving  a  party.  You  talk 
as  though  you  would  be  in  your  grave  next  week." 

"It  is  a  farewell  party." 


350  MENDEL 

"'Farewell  to  the  Piano/"  laughed  Oliver.  "That 
was  the  last  piece  I  learned  when  I  had  music  lessons." 

Mitchell  was  among  the  first  to  arrive.  He  had  been 
ill,  and  looked  washed-out  and  unwholesome.  There 
was  very  little  of  the  Public  School  boy  left  in  him. 

"Is  Kiihler  coming?"  he  asked  nervously. 

"I  expect  so,"  answered  Logan.  "Do  you  know  how 
to  manage  a  pianola?" 

"Yes.     We've  got  one  at  home." 

"You  might  play  it  then,  to  keep  things  going  until 
they  liven  up." 

Mitchell  was  placed  at  the  pianola,  and  was  still  there 
when  Mendel  arrived  with  Morrison. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  Logan.  "Kiihler 
has  talked  about  you  so  often." 

"Yes,"  said  Morrison. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  a  Bohemian  party.  They  are 
a  mixed  lot." 

"No,"  said  Morrison. 

"Good  God!"  thought  Logan.  "Not  a  word  to  say 
for  herself!" 

Mendel  introduced  her  to  Oliver,  who  looked  her  up 
and  down  superciliously — this  little  schoolgirl  in  her 
brown  tweed  coat  and  skirt. 

"I'm  sorry  I  didn't  dress,"  said  Morrison.  "I  didn't 
know." 

She  shrank  from  the  big,  fleshy  woman,  who  made 
her  feel  very  unhappy.  Yet  she  wanted  to  be  fair.  She 
had  heard  Mendel  storm  and  rage  against  Oliver  and 
she  hated  to  be  prejudiced.  It  distressed  her  not  to 
like  anybody,  for  she  found  most  people  likeable.  She 
tried  to  be  amiable : — 

"I'm  so  glad  the  exhibition  was  such  a  success.  Every- 
body is  talking  about  it." 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  351 

"Oh!  yes,  yes,"  said  Oliver  vacantly.  Obviously  she 
was  not  listening.  She  had  eyes  only  for  the  men,  and 
she  bridled  with  pleasure  when  she  attracted  their  at- 
tention. 

Morrison  was  glad  to  escape  to  a  corner,  where  she 
could  watch  the  strange  people  and  be  amused  by  them, 
their  attitudes  and  gestures  and  queer,  conceited  efforts 
deliberately  to  charm  each  other. 

She  blushed  when  she  saw  Mitchell  at  the  pianola, 
and  thought  she  had  been  rather  foolish  and  weak  to 
allow  Mendel  to  bully  her  into  dismissing  him  from  her 
acquaintance,  and  she  was  relieved  when  she  saw  Men- 
del take  in  the  situation  and  go  up  to  Mitchell  and  tap 
him  on  the  shoulder  and  enter  into  eager  discussion  of 
the  pianola.  She  was  less  happy  when  she  saw  Mendel 
take  Mitchell's  place,  and  Mitchell  make  a  bee-line  for 
herself. 

An  astonishing  change  came  over  the  music,  which 
got  into  Mendel's  blood.  It  was  maddening,  it  was 
glorious  to  feel  that  he  had  all  that  wealth  of  sound 
in  his  hands.  He  knew  nothing  of  music,  and  it  was 
almost  pure  rhythm  to  him,  and  he  wished  to  beat  it 
out,  to  accentuate  it  as  much  as  possible.  The  machine 
confounded  him  every  now  and  then  by  running  too  fast 
or  too  slow,  but  he  soon  learned  to  pedal  less  violently, 
and  then  he  was  gloriously  happy  and  drunk  with  ex- 
citement. 

Astonishing,  too,  was  the  change  in  the  company. 
Everybody  began  to  talk  and  to  laugh,  and  space  was 
cleared  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  Clowes  and  a 
young  man  from  the  Detmold  began  to  dance.  Jessie 
Petrie  and  Weldon  joined  them,  and  soon  the  room  was 
full  of  whirling,  gliding  couples. 

Said  Mitchell  to  Morrison : — 


352  MENDEL 


"I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here.  Are  you  going 
to  dance?" 

"No.    I  like  watching." 

He  sat  on  the  floor  by  her  side,  and,  hanging  his 
head,  he  said  woefully : — 

"So  Kiihler's  won!  Gawd!  He  always  gets  what 
he  wants.  There's  no  resisting  him." 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  said  Morrison.  "I  hear  you've 
been  ill." 

"Yes.  I've  been  going  to  the  dogs,  absolutely  to  the 
dogs.  I  had  to  pull  up.  ...  I  didn't  know  you  knew 
Logan;  but,  of  course,  as  he's  so  thick  with  Kiih- 
ler >!" 

"I  met  him  for  the  first  time  to-night.  What  do 
you  think  of  his  work?" 

"Flashy !"  said  Mitchell.  "Very  flashy.  .  .  .  Will  you 
let  me  come  and  see  you  again?" 

"I'd  rather  not,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Why  do  you  dislike  me  so  much?" 

"I  don't  dislike  you.    I  can't  trust  you  not  to  be  silly." 

"Gawd !    I  bet  I'm  not  half  so  silly  as  Kiihler !" 

"He  is  never  silly!" 

"Ah !    Now  you're  offended !" 

She  turned  away  from  him  and  refused  to  speak  again. 
His  half-flirtatious,  half -patronising  manner  offended  her 
deeply,  and  was  far  more  of  an  affront  to  her  than  Lo- 
gan's almost  open  scorn  of  her  as  a  little  bread-and- 
butter  miss.  She  wished  Mendel  would  leave  the  pianola, 
but  he  was  enthralled  and  could  not  tear  himself  away. 
He  played  the  same  tune  over  and  over  again,  or  went 
straight  from  one  to  another,  swaying  to  and  fro,  beat- 
ing time  with  his  hands,  swinging  his  head  up  and 
down. 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  353 

Mitchell  went  very  red  in  the  face  and  slipped  away. 
Presently  she  saw  him  dancing  with  Oliver. 

After  a  few  moments  she  found  Logan  by  her  side, 
and  he  said  kindly: — 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  not  enjoying  yourself  much." 

"Oh  yes !"  she  gasped,  in  a  frightened  voice. 

"I  was  thinking  you  were  not  used  to  this  kind  of 
thing." 

"Oh  yes!     I  often  go  to  parties  in  people's  studios." 

"I  remember,  I  saw  you  at  the  Merlin's  Cave  one 
night." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  I  didn't  enjoy  that  a  bit.  It  all 
seemed  such  a  sham." 

"So  it  was,"  said  Logan.  "So  is  most  of  this.  These 
people  aren't  really  wicked,  though  they  like  to  pretend 
they  are.  I  don't  dance  myself.  I'm  too  clumsy.  Clog- 
dancing  I  can  do,  but  not  dancing  with  anybody  else. 
.  .  .  But  perhaps  I  am  keeping  you ?" 

"Oh  no!     I'm  very  happy  looking  on." 

"Kiihler's  worth  watching,  isn't  he?" 

This  was  said  with  such  insolent  meaning  that  Mor- 
rison wilted  like  a  sensitive  plant.  She  managed  to 
gasp  out  "Yes,"  and  went  on  asking  wild,  pointless 
questions,  with  her  thoughts  whirling  far  removed  from 
her  words. 

Why  were  all  these  people  so  impertinent,  with  their 
trick  of  plunging  into  intimate  life  without  waiting  for 
intimacy?  She  felt  that  in  a  moment  Logan  would  be 
telling  her  all  about  himself  and  Oliver  by  way  of  luring 
her  on  to  discuss  Mendel.  That  she  had  no  intention  of 
doing,  with  him  or  with  any  one  else. 

"She's  just  a  shy  little  fool,"  thought  Logan,  "and 
hopelessly,  hopelessly  young." 

"I'm  unhappy!"  thought  Morrison,  and  it  seemed  to 


354  MENDEL 


her  foolish  and  mean  to  be  so.  Her  loyalty  resented 
her  weakness.  She  owed  it  to  Mendel  to  enjoy  herself 
and  to  share  as  far  as  she  could  his  friends.  But  there 
was  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  gathering  something  that 
repelled  her  and  roused  the  fighting  quality  in  her,  some- 
thing indecent,  something  that  hurt  her  as  the  picture 
of  the  flayed  man  in  the  anatomy  book  hurt  her. 

Mendel  was  playing  a  wild  rag-time  tune. 

"I  think  I'd  like  to  dance  to  this  tune.  You  must 
dance  with  me.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  out  of 
your  own  party,"  she  said  to  Logan,  who  caught  her 
up  in  a  great  bear's  hug,  trod  on  her  toes,  knocked  her 
knees,  pressed  his  fingers  so  tight  into  her  back  that 
she  could  hardly  bear  it,  and  at  last,  as  the  music  ceased, 
deposited  her  by  Mendel's  side. 

"It  is  a  marvellous  thing,  this  machine,"  he  said.  "I 
should  like  to  go  on  at  it  all  night.  Have  you  been 
dancing?  You  look  hot.  You  said  you  weren't  going  to 
dance." 

"I  made  Logan  dance.     He  nearly  killed  me!" 

"How  did  you  get  on?" 

"Not — not  very  well." 

"You  don't  like  him?" 

Jessie  Petrie  came  running  up:  "Kiihler,  Kiihler!" 
she  cried.  "Do,  do  dance  with  me!" 

He  was  very  angry  with  Morrison  for  daring  not  to 
like  Logan,  for  making  up  her  mind  in  two  minutes  that 
she  did  not  like  him.  He  gave  her  a  furious  glance 
as  Weldon  took  his  place  and  started  a  waltz,  put  his 
arms  round  Jessie's  waist,  and  swung  into  the  dance. 

"Oh,  Kiihler!"  said  Jessie  in  her  pretty  birdlike  voice, 
"I  heard  the  most  awful  story  about  you  the  other  day." 

"Do  be  quiet!"  he  grunted.     "Dance!" 

But  he  was  out  of  temper,  out  of  tune,  and  the  music 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  355 

he  had  been  crashing  out  on  the  pianola  was  thudding 
in  his  head,  so  that  he  could  not  respond  either  to  the 
music  of  the  waltz  or  to  Jessie's  eagerness. 

"Isn't  it  funny  Thompson  being  back  in  London?  I 
don't  like  him  a  bit  now.  You  have  spoiled  me  for 
everybody  else.  Do  you  want  me  to  come  on  Friday  as 
usual?"  ' 

"Do  be  quiet." 

"What's  the  matter  ?  You  aren't  dancing  at  all  nicely 
and  you  haven't  looked  at  me  once  this  evening." 

"No;  don't  come  on  Friday." 

"Not ?" 

Her  voice  was  shrill  with  pain. 

"No.    That's  all  over." 

She  hung  limp  in  his  arms  and  her  face  was  a  ghastly 
yellow.  She  muttered : — 

"Take  me  out.  ...  I  think  I'm  going  to  faint." 

He  half -carried  her  into  the  passage,  where  she  sat 
on  the  stairs  and  began  to  cry.  Neither  of  them  no- 
ticed Clowes  and  the  young  man  from  the  Detmold  sit- 
ting above  them. 

"Don't  cry!"  he  said  roughly;  "what  have  you  got 
to  cry  about?" 

"I  never  thought  you  only  wanted  me  for  that." 

"You  came  to  me.    I  didn't  ask  you  to  come." 

"But  I  do  love  you  so.  I  only  want  you  to  love  me  a 
little." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  love  a  little.  When  I  love  it  is 
with  the  whole  of  me,  and  it  is  for  always." 

"But  can't  we  be  pals,  just  pals?     We've  been  such 

>a"I'm  sick  to  death  of  it  all,"  he  said  violently,  "sick 
to  death.  You're  the  best  girl  in  London,  Jessie,  but 
it's  no  good — it's  no  good." 


356  MENDEL 


Clowes  and  the  young  man  ostentatiously  and  with 
a  great  clatter  went  higher  up  the  stairs,  but  neither 
Jessie  nor  Mendel  heard  them.  The  pain  and  the  shame 
they  were  suffering  absorbed  them. 

"I  never  thought,"  said  Jessie,  "it  was  near  the  end. 
I've  always  known  when  it  was  near  the  end  before. 
It  is  like  being  struck  by  lightning." 

Mendel  was  silent.  He  could  do  nothing.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  said.  Jessie  had  consoled  him,  comforted 
him,  but  she  had  only  made  his  suffering  worse.  By 
the  side  of  Morrison  she  simply  did  not  exist,  and  it 
had  been  a  lie  to  pretend  that  she  did.  That  lie  must 
be  cut  out. 

"I  never  thought  you  only  wanted  me  for  that,"  she 
repeated,  and  began  to  move  slowly  down  the  stairs.  At 
the  bend  she  stopped  and  looked  up  at  him,  gave  a  little 
muffled  cry,  and  moved  slowly  down  into  the  dim  lobby 
of  the  house. 

Mendel  gripped  the  banisters  with  both  hands  and 
shook  them  until  they  cracked. 

"How  horrible!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "how  hor- 
rible!" 

Upstairs,  Clowes  was  boiling  with  rage.  She  lost  all 
interest  in  her  young  man,  and  as  soon  as  Mendel  had 
returned  to  the  room  she  raced  downstairs,  almost  sob- 
bing, and  saying  to  herself : — > 

"That  settles  you,  Master  Kuhler !    That  settles  you !" 

She  darted  across  to  Morrison,  who  had  taken  refuge 
in  a  corner,  seized  her  by  the  hand  and  whispered  : — 

"Greta!  Greta!  I've  just  heard  the  most  frightful 
thing.  I  couldn't  help  overhearing  it  and  I  ought  not 
to  tell  anybody,  but  you  ought  to  know.  Kuhler  and 
Petrie!  It  must  have  been  going  on  for  months.  He 
broke  with  her  in  the  most  cold-blooded  way.  It  was 


LOGAN  GIVES  A  PARTY  357 

heart-rending.  I  can't  bear  it.  Oh!  these  men,  these 
men!" 

Morrison  clenched  her  fists  and  her  eyes  blazed. 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more!"  she  said.  "Don't  tell  me 
any  more!" 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  whispered  Clowes.  "It  is  a 
dreadful  party.  That  awful  green  woman  spoils  every- 
thing. It  is  like  a  nightmare  to  me  now." 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  go  without  telling  him,"  said 
Morrison.  "It  wouldn't  be  fair." 

"But  you  can't  think  of  him  after  that,"  protested 
Clowes.  "Oh!  good  gracious!  There's  Calthrop  com- 
ing in.  It  is  getting  worse  and  worse." 

Calthrop  swung  into  the  room  with  his  magnificent 
stride.  As  usual,  his  entrance  created  a  dramatic  sen- 
sation. Logan,  who  had  always  decried  his  work,  leaped 
to  meet  him  and  Mendel  stood  shyly  waiting  for  his 
nod.  .  .  .  Whom  would  the  great  man  speak  to?  That 
was  the  question.  .  .  .  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Oliver  and 
strode  up  to  her. 

"You're  the  best-looking  woman  in  the  room,"  he 
said.  "Do  you  like  cinemas?" 

"I  adore  them,"  said  Oliver,  with  an  excited  giggle. 

"Now,  now's  the  chance!"  whispered  Clowes.  "We 
can  slip  away  now,  before  they  begin  drinking." 

"I  must  tell  him,"  replied  Morrison,  and,  summon- 
ing up  all  her  courage,  she  went  up  to  Mendel  and  asked 
if  she  could  speak  to  him.  He  went  out  with  her,  trem- 
bling in  every  limb. 

"I  am  going,"  she  said.  "I  have  just  heard  something. 
Clowes  overheard  you  and  Jessie  Petrie.  She  ought  not 
to  have  told  me.  I  don't  know  what  I  feel  about  it. 
Very  wretched,  chiefly.  Please  don't  try  to  see  me." 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  am  again  and  again,"  he  said. 


358  MENDEL 


"Yes.  You  are  very  honest,  but  it  is  hard  for  a  girl 
to  imagine  these  things.  Please,  please  see  how  hard 
it  is  and  let  me  be." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  feeling  that  the  whole  world 
had  come  to  an  end.  "Very  well." 

She  called  Clowes,  who  had  stayed  just  inside  the 
door,  and  together,  like  little  frightened  children,  they 
crept  downstairs. 

"Good-bye,  love !"  said  Mendel.  "My  God,  what  rub- 
bish, what  folly,  what  nonsense!  Love  and  a  Christian 
girl!  That's  over.  That's  finished.  I  am  outside  it  all 
— outside,  outside,  outside.  Oh !  Dark  and  vile  and  bit- 
ter, and  no  sweetness  anywhere  but  in  my  own  thoughts !" 

Inside  the  room  some  one  began  to  sing : — 

I  want  to  be,  I  want  to  be, 

I  want  to  be  down  home  in  Dixie.  .  .  . 

Oh !  the  mad  folly  of  these  Christians,  with  their  child- 
ish songs,  their  idiotic  pleasures,  their  preposterous  belief 
in  happiness.  .  .  .  Happiness!  They  ruin  the  world  to 
satisfy  their  childish  longing,  and  all  their  happiness  lies 
in  words  and  foolish  songs.  .  .  .  The  rhythm  of  the  pian- 
ola tunes  began  to  beat  in  his  head,  and  another  deeper 
rhythm  came  up  from  the  depths  of  his  soul  and  tried 
to  break  through  them.  It  was  the  same  rhythm  that 
always  came  up  when  he  had  reached  the  lowest  depths 
of  misery.  It  came  gushing  forth  like  water  from  the 
rock  of  Moses,  and  crept  through  his  being  like  ice,  up, 
up  into  his  thoughts,  bringing  him  to  an  intolerable 
agony. 

In  the  room  glasses  clinked.  He  turned  towards  the 
light  and  plunged  into  the  carouse. 


CHAPTER   VI 

REVELATION 


THREE  weeks  later  the  exhibition  of  Modern  French 
Art  was  opened  in  an  important  gallery  in  the  West 
End.  It  roused  indignation,  laughter,  scorn,  and  made 
such  a  stir  in  the  papers  that  public  interest  was  ex- 
cited and  the  exhibition  was  an  unparalleled  success.  Peo- 
ple from  the  suburbs,  people  who  had  never  been  to  a 
picture  gallery  in  their  lives,  flocked  to  see  the  show,  and 
most  of  them,  when  they  left,  said :  "Well,  at  any  rate 
we've  had  a  good  laugh." 

Mendel  never  read  the  papers  and  knew  nothing  at 
all  about  it.  These  three  weeks  had  been  a  time  of  blank 
misery  for  him.  He  could  not  work.  His  people  set 
his  teeth  on  edge.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  a  soul,  for 
he  could  not  talk.  When  he  met  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances, not  a  word  could  he  find  to  say  to  them.  There 
was  nothing  to  say.  They  were  living  in  a  world  from 
which  he  had  been  expelled.  More  than  once  he  was 
on  the  point  of  going  to  his  father  and  asking  to  be  taken 
into  the  workshop,  since  the  only  possible,  the  only  bear- 
able life  was  one  of  hard  manual  labour,  which  left  no 
room  for  spiritual  activity,  none  for  happiness,  and  very 
little  for  unhappiness. 

He  found  some  consolation  in  going  to  the  synagogue. 
His  mother  was  delighted,  but  the  religion  was  no  com- 

359 


360  MENDEL 


fort  to  him.  What  pleased  him  was  to  see  the  old  Jews 
in  their  shawls  and  the  women  in  their  beaded  gowns, 
praying  each  in  their  separate  parts  of  the  building — 
praying  until  they  wept,  and  abasing  themselves  before 
the  Lord.  What  woe,  what  misery  they  expressed !  All 
the  year  round  was  this  dismal  wailing,  and  there  was 
only  happiness  on  the  day  that  Haman  was  hanged.  .  .  . 
It  seemed  good  and  decent  to  him  that  the  sexes  should 
be  separate  before  the  Lord,  as  they  should  be  separate 
before  the  holy  spirit  that  was  in  them.  They  should 
meet  in  holiness,  hover  for  a  moment  above  life,  then 
sink  back  into  it  again  to  gather  new  strength.  So  love 
would  be  in  its  place.  It  could  be  gathered  up  and  dis- 
tilled. It  would  not  be  allowed  to  spread  like  a  flood  of 
muddy  water  over  life,  which  had  other  passions,  other 
delights,  other  glorious  flowerings. 

It  had  been  a  great  day  for  him  when,  in  a  little 
shop  near  his  home,  he  had  come  on  a  pair  of  wooden 
figures  rudely  carved  by  savages — African,  the  shopman 
said  they  were.  Rurely  carved,  they  were  not  at  all  re- 
alistic, but  admirably  simplified,  the  man  and  the  woman 
sitting  side  by  side  naked.  The  man  was  wearing  a 
little  round  bowler  hat,  while  the  woman  was  uncov- 
ered. They  had  the  spirit  and  the  idea  that  he  most 
loved — the  idea  of  man  and  woman  sitting  side  by  side, 
bound  in  love,  unfathomably  deep  and  unimaginably  high, 
until  one  should  follow  the  other  to  the  grave. 

He  showed  them  to  Golda,  and  told  her  they  were 
she  and  his  father. 

"What  next  will  you  be  up  to  ?"  she  said.  "Why,  they 
are  blackamoors." 

"They  are  you  and  my  father,"  he  said,  caressing  the 
figures  lovingly. 

"I  wish  you  would  put  the  thought  of  that  girl  out 


REVELATION  361 


of  your  head,"  she  said  tenderly.  "It  is'  making  you  so 
ill  and  so  thin,  and  I  dare  not  think  what  your  father 
will  say  when  he  knows  you  are  drinking  again." 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "when  did  you  begin  to  love  me?" 

"When  you  were  born,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  yes.  I  know,  as  a  cow  loves  its  calf.  But  I 
mean  love,  for  you  do  not  love  the  others  the  same 
as  me." 

"You  were  not  so  very  old  when  it  came  to  me  that 
you  were  different." 

"But  it  is  more  now  that  I  am  a  man?" 

"Of  course." 

That  settled  his  mind  on  the  point  that  had  been 
bothering  him.  Everywhere  among  the  Christians  love 
— the  love  that  he  knew  and  honoured — seemed  to  be 
lost  in  a  soft,  spongy  worship  of  the  mother's  love  for 
her  child.  The  woman  seemed  to  be  wiped  out  of  ac- 
count altogether  except  as  a  mother.  It  seemed  that 
she  was  not  expected  to  love,  and  she  was  left  by  herself 
with  the  child,  with  the  man  looking  rather  foolish  all 
by  himself,  seeing  his  strong,  beautiful  masculine  love 
absorbed  and  given  to  the  senseless  little  lump  of  flesh 
in  the  woman's  arms.  It  was  like  discarding  the  flower 
for  the  seed,  like  denying  the  wonder  of  spring  for  the 
autumn  fruit. 

"If  that  is  your  Christian  love,"  he  said  to  himself, 

"I  will  have  none  of  it." 

He  studied  the  Madonnas  in  the  National  Gallery, 
and  they  confirmed  his  impression  of  the  weakness  of 
Christian  love,  that  left  out  the  strong,  vital  love  < 
man  for  a  woman,  of  a  woman  for  a  man.    He  charac- 
terised it  as  womanish,  and  could  not  see  that  the  ide 
had  served  to  save  women  from  male  tyranny.     More- 
over most  of  the  pictures  struck  him  as  shockingly  bad, 


362  MENDEL 


which  confirmed  his  notion  that  the  ideal  that  inspired 
them  was  rotten. 

He  could  not  test  his  ideas  by  his  experience  with 
Morrison,  for  he  dared  not  think  of  her  at  all.  When 
his  mother  spoke  of  her,  it  had  been  like  a  sharp  knife 
through  his  heart.  .  .  .  Yes.  That  was  love,  and  it 
could  not  be  bothered  with  the  idea  of  children.  If 
they  came,  it  would  make  room  for  them,  but  it  was 
not  going  to  be  robbed  by  them.  Its  object  was  the 
woman,  and  it  detested  any  idea  that  got  between  it  and 
her.  .  .  .  Yet  when  this  love  for  Morrison  stood  be- 
tween himself  and  his  love  for  art,  he  hated  her  almost 
as  violently.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  he  would  kill 
her,  because  she  stood  there  smiling.  She  was  always 
smiling.  She  could  be  happy;  she  could  so  easily  be 
happy.  .  .  . 

Logan  came  to  fetch  him  to  go  to  the  exhibition. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  exhibition.  I  don't  want 
to  see  other  people's  pictures.  I  want  to  paint  my  own." 

"What  are  you  working  at  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Sex." 

"Oh!     That's   always  the  matter   with   everybody." 

"ButTve  thought  of  something." 

"What?" 

"Women  don't  love  their  children." 

Logan  roared  with  laughter,  and  he  went  on  laugh- 
ing because  he  enjoyed  it.  It  was  long  since  he  had 
laughed  so  easily. 

"Most  of  them  do,"  he  said.  "Even  if  they've  hated 
having  them." 

"They  don't,"  said  Mendel.    "It's  instinct  just  to  gloat 


REVELATION  363 


over  them,  just  as  one  gloats  over  a  picture  one  has  just 
finished,  however  bad  it  may  be.  It  has  cost  you  some- 
thing, and  there  is  something  to  show  for  it.  It  is  quite 
blind  and  stupid,  like  an  animal.  It  is  like  lust.  It  is 
neither  true  nor  false.  It  just  is,  chaotic  and  half-cre- 
ated. '  Love  is  a  human  thing.  Love  is  the  most  human 
thing  there  is.  When  a  clerk  marries  a  girl  because 
he  wants  a  woman,  I  don't  call  that  love.  He  is  only 
making  himself  comfortable.  There  is  a  little  more  dirt 
in  the  world,  that  is  all." 

Logan  laughed  uncomfortably. 

"Please  listen,"  said  Mendel.  "I  have  been  nearly 
mad  this  last  fortnight,  ever  since  the  party.  All  my 
life  seems  to  have  broken  its  way  into  my  mind,  and 
I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  able  to  get  it  out  again. 
It  is  very  important  that  I  should  talk,  and  I  have  no 
one  really  to  talk  to  except  you.  I  am  very  lonely  be- 
cause I  am  a  Jew  and  people  do  not  understand  me,  or 
rather  they  think  they  understand  me  because  I  am  a 
Jew.  They  think  all  Jews  are  the  same.  It  is  very  rarely 
that  I  feel  I  am  accepted  as  a  man  with  thoughts,  feel- 
ings, tears,  laughter,  tastes,  bowels,  senses  like  any  other 
man." 

"I  know,"  said  Logan  sympathetically. 

"How  can  you  know?  You  have  only  to  live  in  a 
world  that  is  ready-made  for  you.  I  have  to  make  mine 
as  I  go,  step  by  step." 

"That  isn't  because  you  are  a  Jew,  but  because  you 
are  an  artist.  It  is  the  same  for  all  of  us." 

"It  can't  be  the  same,  for  the  ordinary  world  is  not 
utterly  foreign  to  you.    You  do  not  find  that  which  you 
were  brought  up  to  believe,  the  wisdom  you  sucked  in 
with  your  mother's  milk,  completely  denied.  ...  I 
you,  love  is  all  wrong,  and  because  love  is  all  wrong, 


364  MENDEL 


art  is  all  wrong,  everything  is  wrong,  and  so  is  every- 
body. Everybody  is  living  with  only  a  part  of  himself, 
so  that  the  cleverest  people  are  the  worst  and  most  mis- 
chievous fools.  I  tell  you,  there  are  times  in  your  West 
End  when  I  can  hardly  breathe  because  people  are  such 
fools.  If  you  are  successful,  they  smile  at  you.  If 
you  are  not  successful,  they  look  the  other  way.  .  .  . 
Oh !  I  know  it  does  not  matter,  but  it  makes  success 
a  paltry  thing,  and  when  you  have  lived  for  it  and  hun- 
gered for  it,  what  then?  What  are  you  to  do  when  it 
is  like  sand  trickling  through  your  fingers?" 

"You  can't  stop  it,"  said  Logan.  "You  can't  throw 
it  away.  You  can  only  go  on  working,  come  what  may." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mendel  dubiously,  and  grievously  dis- 
appointed. He  had  so  hoped  to  squeeze  out  his  twisted, 
tortured  feelings  into  words,  but  at  a  certain  point  Logan 
failed  him  and  seemed  to  shy  at  his  thought.  To  a 
certain  quality  of  passion  in  himself  Logan  was  insensi- 
ble. Where  his  own  passion  began  to  gain  in  clear  force 
and  momentum,  swinging  from  the  depths  of  life  to  the 
highest  imagination,  only  gaining  in  strength  as  the 
ascent  grew  more  arduous,  Logan's  remained  in  an  ex- 
asperated intensity. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mendel.  "Talking  is  no  use.  I've 
found  my  way  out  of  as  bad  times  as  this,  and  shall 
again.  It  is  no  good  talking.  I  will  sit  as  silent  as  the 
little  figures  there,  and  in  time  I  shall  know  what  I 
must  do." 

"You  want  taking  out  of  yourself,"  muttered  Logan 
irritably.  "Come  and  see  Thompson's  show." 

As  successful  artists  they  entered  the  gallery  self-con- 
sciously and  rather  contemptuously.  That  did  not  last 
long.  There  were  many  people  sniggering  at  the  Van 


REVELATION  365 


Goghs  and  the  Picassos,  but  Mendel's  thoughts  flew  back 
to  a  still-life  he  had  painted  of  a  blue  enamel  teapot  and 
a  yellow  matchbox  years  ago.  He  had  painted  them 
as  he  had  seen  them,  in  raw,  crude  colour,  but  the  pic- 
ture had  been  so  derided,  and  he  had  been  so  scornfully 
reminded  that  there  were  no  brilliant  colours  in  nature, 
that  he  had  painted  the  same  subject  over  again  with  a 
very  careful  rendering  of  what  was  called  "atmosphere." 

Here  were  crude  colours  indeed — almost,  in  many 
cases,  as  they  came  from  the  tubes,  and  as  for  drawing, 
there  was  hardly  a  trace  of  it,  yet  in  the  majority  of 
the  pictures  there  was  a  riotous  freedom  which  rushed 
like  a  cleansing  wind  through  Mendel's  mind,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  here  was  the  answer  to  many  of  his 
doubts — not  a  clear  vision  of  art,  but  a  roughly  indi- 
cated road  to  it.  It  was  absurd  to  sit  cramping  over 
rules  and  difficult  technicalities  when  the  starting-point 
of  art  lay  so  far  beyond  them.  There  was  much  rub- 
bish in  the  show,  but  the  works  of  Cezanne  and  Picasso 
were  undeniably  pictures.  They  were  not  flooded  with 
a  clear  loveliness,  like  the  pictures  of  Botticelli  or  Uc- 
cello,  but  they  had  beauty,  and  lured  the  mind  on  to 
seek  another  more  mysterious  beauty  beyond  them. 

The  two  friends  went  through  the  exhibition  in  silence. 
As  they  left,  Mendel  asked: — 

"Well!  what  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"We're  snuffed  out,"  replied  Logan  despondently. 

"Not  I!"  cried  Mendel.     "I'm  only  just  beginning." 

"I  don't  understand  it  yet.  It  has  made  my  eyes 
and  my  head  ache.  At  first  it  seemed  to  me  too  cerebral 
to  be  art  at  all,  but  there's  no  denying  it,  and  it  has  to 
be  digested.  In  a  way  it  is  what  I  have  always  been 
talking  about.  It  has  to  do  with  the  life  we  are  living, 
which  may  not  be  much  of  a  life,  but  it  is  ours  and  we 


366  MENDEL 


find  it  good.  It  has  not  been  a  plunge  into  another 
world,  like  a  visit  to  the  National  Gallery,  but  into 
some  reality  a  little  beyond  this  extraordinary  jumble 
and  hotchpotch  of  metropolitan  life." 

"It  is  painting,"  said  Mendel.  "That  is  enough  for 
me.  And  they  are  not  afraid  of  colour.  Why  should 
they  be  ?  The  colours  are  there :  why  not  use  them  ? 
I'm  going  to." 

And  he  went  home  and  dashed  off  a  savage  mother 
with  a  green  face  thrusting  a  straw-coloured  breast  into 
the  gaping  red  lips  of  a  child. 

So  much  for  maternity  and  the  Madonnas !  He  knew 
how  a  man  loved  his  mother,  and  it  was  not  in  that 
milky  way,  setting  her  above  nature,  she  who  was  tied 
and  bound  to  natural,  instinctive,  animal  life.  If  a 
man  loved  his  mother,  it  was  because  with  her  it  was 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  intimate  and  frank 
and  honest  and  without  pretence  of  any  kind. 

His  mother  was  marvellous  to  him  because  she  was 
his  dearest  friend,  not  because  she  had  given  him  suck. 
That  was  a  fact  like  any  other,  and  facts  were  not  mar- 
vellous until  more  and  more  light  was  thrown  on  them 
from  the  mind,  for  in  the  murk  and  muddle  of  human 
life  they  were  distorted. 

For  Mendel  this  was  the  wildest  and  rarest  adventure 
yet.  It  was  a  flinging  of  his  cap  over  the  windmills, 
and  with  it  he  had  the  sense  of  losing  all  his  troubles, 
all  his  perplexities.  Nothing  for  the  time  being  seemed 
to  matter  very  much.  He  had  always  been  denied  colour, 
and  here  he  had  the  right  to  use  it  because  it  had  been 
used  by  other  men  rightly.  In  the  world  of  art,  or  rather 
of  artists,  he  had  always  been  a  sort  of  Ishmael,  ever 
since  he  had  outgrown  being  a  prodigy,  and  here  was  a 
new  world  of  art  where  he  could  be  free.  .  .  .  True,  he 


REVELATION  367 


had  seen  the  same  things  in  Paris  and  had  not  thought 
much  of  them,  but  so  much  had  happened  since  then,  and 
he  had  passed  through  the  greatest  crisis  of  his  life. 

Always  after  his  crises  he  expected  to  find  himself, 
and  now  he  thought  he  had  surely  done  so.  He  would 
be  entirely  free,  completely  independent. 

For  three  weeks  he  lived  between  his  studio  and  the 
gallery,  studying  these  strange  new  vibrant  pictures  and 
experimenting  with  their  manners  as  now  this,  now  that 
painter  influenced  him.  Picasso  baffled  him  altogether. 
These  queer,  violent,  angular  patterns  actually  hurt  him, 
and  he  was  repelled  by  their  intellectual  intensity.  Gau- 
guin he  found  too  easy,  Van  Gogh  too  incoherent.  It 
was  when  he  came  to  Cezanne  that  he  was  bowled  out 
and  reduced  to  impotence  and  all  the  egoistic  excitement 
oozed  out  of  him. 

He  was  not  so  free  then.  Here  was  an  art  before 
which  he  must  be  humbled  and  subdued  if  he  was  to 
understand  it  at  all.  He  abandoned  his  experiments  and 
made  no  attempt  to  work  at  all,  but  bought  a  reproduc- 
tion of  Cezanne's  portrait  of  his  wife  and  spent  many 
days  poring  over  it.  It  held  him  and  fascinated  him, 
and  yet  it  looked  almost  like  the  unfinished  work  of  an 
amateur  who  could  not  draw.  Of  psychological  interest 
the  picture  was  bare.  It  was  just  a  portrait  of  a  woman 
at  peace,  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  bathed  in  a 
serenity  beyond  mortal  understanding,  though  not  beyond 
mortal  perception,  since  a  man  had  rendered  it  in  paint. 
It  released  directly  the  swift,  soaring  emotion  which, 
though  it  was  roused  in  him  by  many  pictures  and  by 
some  poetry— passages  in  the  Bible,  for  instance— was 
quickly  entangled  in  sensual  pleasure  and  never  properly 
set  free.  Here,  the  more  he  gazed  the  more  that  emo- 
tion, pure,  disinterested,  unearthly,  rushed  through  him, 


368  MENDEL 


exploring  all  the  caverns  in  his  imagination  and  deliver- 
ing from  them  new  powers  of  perception.  He  felt,  as 
he  told  Logan  afterwards,  like  a  tree  putting  out  its 
leaves  in  the  spring. 

And  yet  he  could  not  tell  how  this  miracle  was  ac- 
complished. No  words  could  explain  it — abstraction, 
composition,  design,  none  of  these  words  helped  at  all. 
It  was  not  so  much  the  doing  of  the  thing,  the  art  of 
the  painter,  as  the  setting  out  of  the  woman  on  the  can- 
vas without  reference  to  anything  in  heaven  or  earth, 
or  any  idea,  or  any  emotion  or  desire.  It  was  enough 
that  she  was  a  woman,  not  especially  beautiful,  not  par- 
ticularly remarkable.  So  perfect  a  vision  had  no  need 
to  be  tender  or  affectionate  or  sensual,  or  to  call  in  aid 
any  of  the  emotions  of  life.  It  needed  no  force  but  the 
rare  religious  ecstasy  which  has  no  need  of  ideas  or  com- 
mon human  feelings,  and  this  vision  of  a  woman  gave 
Mendel  a  new  appreciation  of  life  and  love  and  art. 
It  gave  human  beings  a  new  value.  It  was  enough  that 
they  were  alive  and  upon  the  earth  with  all  that  they 
contained  of  good  and  evil.  They  were  in  themselves 
wonderful,  and  there  was  no  need  to  worry  about  whence 
they  came  or  whither  they  were  going,  or  what  was  their 
relation  to  God  and  the  universe.  In  each  man,  each 
woman  was  enough  of  God  and  of  the  universe  to  keep 
them  poised  for  their  little  hour. 

What,  then,  was  love?  What  but  the  sense  of  being 
poised,  of  being  borne  up  by  God,  an  intimation  that 
could  only  be  won  through  contact  with  life  at  its  purest. 
And  beyond  that  again  lay  a  further  degree  of  purity 
which  could  only  find  expression  in  art,  since  life,  even 
at  its  rarest,  was  too  gross. 

Often  Mendel  kissed  his  reproduction  reverently  and 
hugged  it  to  his  bosom,  thinking  childishly  that  some  of 


REVELATION  369 


its  spirit  could  enter  into  him  by  contact.    He  whispered 
to  it  :— 

"I  love  you.  You  are  my  truth  and  my  joy  rising 
up  through  life,  even  from  its  very  depths,  and  shaking 
free  of  it  at  last  into  pure,  serene  beauty.  You  weigh 
neither  upon  my  senses  nor  upon  my  thoughts,  but,  fol- 
lowing you,  they  are  joined  together  to  become  a  high 
sense  which  can  know  deliverance." 

Followed  days  of  a  supreme  delight.  He  wandered 
through  the  streets  seeing  all  men  and  all  women  and 
all  things  as  wonderful,  since  through  them  all  flowed 
his  lovely  spirit  which  in  the  few  men  here  and  there 
could  find  its  freedom  and  its  expression  in  form. 

Through  Thompson  he  met  a  journalist  who  was 
writing  a  book  about  the  new  painting,  and  from  him 
he  learned  the  little  that  was  known  about  Cezanne :  how 
he  worked  away  experimenting  unsuccessfully  until  he 
was  middle-aged,  and  then  withdrew  from  the  world  of 
artists  in  Paris,  to  live  the  life  of  a  simple  country  bour- 
geois and  to  paint  the  vision  which  he  had  begun  to 
divine:  and  how  he  painted  out  in  the  fields,  leaving 
his  canvases  in  the  hedges  and  by  the  wayside,  because 
not  the  painting  but  the  expression  of  his  spirit  and  the 
solution  of  his  problem  mattered  to  him:  and  how  he 
never  sold  a  single  picture,  never  attempted  to  sell  them. 

Such,  thought  Mendel,  should  the  life  of  an  artist 
be.  But  how  was  it  possible  if  life  would  not  let  him 
alone,  but  was  perpetually  dragging  him  down  into  the 
mud?  What  mud,  what  filth  he  had  had  to  flounder 
through  to  get  even  so  far  as  he  had! 

And  already  he  began  to  feel  that  he  was  slipping 
back.  He  could  not  accept  that  knowledge  of  the  spirit 
vicariously,  but  must  fight  for  his  own  knowledge  of  it 
in  direct  contact  with  life.  To  endeavour  to  escape  from 


370  MENDEL 


life  was  to  isolate  himself,  to  lose  the  driving  force  of 
life  from  darkness  into  the  light,  to  dwell  in  the  twilight 
of  solitude  armed  only  with  his  puny  egoism  and  the 
paltry  tricks  of  professional  painting.  He  felt  that  at  last 
he  knew  his  desire,  but  in  no  wise  how  to  attain  it. 
Cezanne  had  had  a  wife:  that  had  settled  one  of  the 
torments  of  life.  He  had  had  ample  means :  that  had 
absolved  him  from  the  ever-present  difficulty  of  money. 
These  considerations  relieved  Mendel  from  another 
weighty  puzzle.  Perhaps  if  Cezanne  had  had  to  please 
other  people  and  not  only  his  own  spirit,  he  would  have 
cared  more  for  his  craft  and  for  the  quality  of  his  paint. 
.  .  .  All  the  same,  it  was  good  to  have  pictures  reduced 
to  their  bare  essentials,  relieved  of  ornament  and  trickery, 
and  yet  retaining  their  full  pictorial  quality. 

Shortly  after  the  party  Logan  and  Oliver  had  moved 
to  a  little  cottage  on  Hampstead  Heath,  just  below  Jack 
Straw's  Castle.  Mendel  went  to  see  them  there  and  met 
Logan  on  the  Spaniard's  Road.  He  was  in  a  deplorable 
condition.  His  right  eye  was  blackened,  his  nose  was 
bloody  and  scratched,  the  lobe  of  his  ear  was  torn  and 
his  forehead  was  purple  with  bruises. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself!" 
asked  Mendel. 

"I've  had  a  fight,"  said  Logan  glibly.  "The  other 
night  on  the  Heath  I  came  on  a  man  beating  a  girl.  I 
went  for  him.  He  was  a  huge  lout  of  a  man.  We  had 
a  terrific  tussle,  and  just  as  I  was  getting  him  down 
the  girl  went  for  me  and  scratched  my  face." 

"If  you  lived  where  I  do,"  said  Mendel,  "you  would 
know  better  than  to  interfere." 

"Oh!  I  enjoyed  it,"  said  Logan.  "I  couldn't  stand  by 
and  see  it  done." 


REVELATION  371 


They  ran  down  the  grassy  slope  to  the  cottage,  where 
they  found  Oliver  entertaining  Thompson  and  her  critic. 
She  had  a  slight  bruise  over  her  right  eye,  and  Mendel 
thought : — 

"Why  does  he  lie?  Why  should  he  lie  to  me?  I 
should  think  no  worse  of  him  for  beating  her.  If  I 
could  not  shake  her  off  I  should  kill  her." 

He  was  filled  with  a  sudden  disgust  at  the  household, 
which  in  his  eyes  had  become  an  obscene  profanation. 

The  talk  was  excited,  and  formerly  he  would  have 
found  it  interesting.  Thompson  was  full  of  the  triumph 
of  the  exhibition  and  its  success  in  forcing  art  upon  the 
public.  He  spoke  glibly  of  abstraction  and  cubing,  and 
it  was  clear  that  they  only  delighted  him  as  new  tricks. 

Oliver  took  part  in  the  conversation.  She  had  picked 
up  the  jargon  of  painters  and  made  great  play  with  the 
names  of  the  new  masters.  To  hear  her  talking  glibly 
of  Cezanne  and  saying  how  he  had  shown  the  object 
of  pictorial  art  to  be  pattern  filled  Mendel's  soul  with 
loathing.  He  could  not  protest.  What  was  the  good  of 
protesting  to  such  people?  ...  If  only  Logan  had  not 
been  among  them !  He  wanted  to  talk  to  Logan,  to  tell 
him  what  this  new  thing  meant,  to  make  him  see  that 
he  must  give  up  all  thought  of  turning  art  back  upon 
life,  because  life  did  not  matter  so  very  much.  It  could 
look  after  itself,  while  the  integrity  of  art  must  at  all 
costs  be  maintained. 

However,  when  Thompson  said  that  the  artist  was 
now  free  to  make  up  a  picture  out  of  any  shapes  he 
liked,  Mendel  could  not  contain  himself,  and  said  :— 

"The  artist  is  no  more  free  than  ever  he  was.  He 
does  not  become  free  by  burking  representation.  He  is 
not  free  merely  to  work  by  caprice  and  fantasy  .^  He  is 
rather  more  strictly  bound  than  ever,  because  he  is  work- 


372  MENDEL 


ing  through  his  imagination  and  cannot  get  out  of  it 
merely  by  using  his  eyes  and  imitating  charming  things. 
If  he  tries  to  get  out  of  it  by  impudent  invention,  then 
pictures  will  be  just  as  dull  and  degraded  as  before." 

"  'I  am  Sir  Oracle/  "  said  the  critic,  "  'and  when  I 
ope  my  lips  let  no  dog  bark.' ' 

"You  can  bark  away,"  cried  Mendel,  "but  you  must 
not  complain  if  a  man  loses  patience  with  you  and  kicks 
you  back  into  your  kennel." 

"Just  listen  to  the  boy!"  cried  Oliver.  "Success  has 
turned  his  pretty  little  head.  Just  listen  to  him  teaching 
the  critics  their  business!" 

Mendel  gave  her  a  furious  look  of  contempt  and  left 
the  room  and  the  house.  Logan  came  running  after  him. 

"I  say,  old  man,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't  mind  what 
she  says.  Those  damn  fools  have  stuffed  her  head  up 
with  their  nonsense  and  she  hasn't  the  brains  of  a  louse." 

"If  it  was  my  house,  I  would  kick  them  out." 

"They  are  good  fellows  enough." 

"Good  fellows !  When  they  make  her  more  idiotic  and 
blatant  than  she  is!" 

"I  can't  think  what  made  you  so  angry.  There  was 
nothing  to  flare  up  about.  You  are  so  touchy." 

Mendel  was  walking  at  a  furious  pace.  Logan  was 
out  of  condition  and  had  to  beg  him  to  go  more  slowly. 

"I'm  all  to  bits,"  said  Logan.     "That  row " 

"Why  do  you  tell  lies?  It  was  she  who  mauled  you. 
Why  do  you  tell  lies  to  me?  I  have  never  told  lies  to 
you  about  anything.  You  have  always  jeered  at  women 
and  said  they  can  know  nothing  about  art,  and  yet  you 
let  her  talk.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  leave  her?" 

"We're  very  fond  of  each  other,"  replied  Logan.  "It 
has  gone  too  deep.  We  hate  each  other  like  poison  some- 
times, but  that  only  makes  it — the  real  thing — go  deeper." 


REVELATION  373 


"I  can't  bear  it,"  said  Mendel ;  "I  can't  bear  it.  It  was 
bad  enough  when  she  kept  quiet,  but  now  that  she  gives 
herself  airs  and  talks,  I  can't  stand  it.  I  hate  her  so 
that  I  feel  as  if  the  top  of  my  head  would  blow  off.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  there  was  nothing  much  in  what  she  said.  Per- 
haps it  was  only  a  slow  growing  detestation  coming  to 
a  head.  But  there  it  is.  It  is  final.  I  have  tried  to  like 
her,  to  be  decent  to  her,  to  make  allowances  for  her,  but 
it  is  impossible." 

"You  don't  mean  you  are  not  going  to  come  to  see  us 
again  ?" 

"Yes.  That  is  what  I  do  mean.  She  doesn't  exist 
for  me  any  longer.  If  I  met  her  in  a  cafe  or  in  the 
streets  she  would  be  all  right.  She  would  be  in  her  place. 
There  would  be  some  truth  in  her.  In  connection  with 
you  she  is  a  festering  lie." 

"She  can't  settle  down  to  it,"  replied  Logan  lamely, 
ashamed  of  his  inability  to  defend  Oliver  from  this  on- 
slaught. Defence  would  be  quite  useless,  for  he  knew 
that  Mendel  would  detect  his  untruth.  If  only  Mendel 
were  a  little  older,  if  only  he  could  have  grown  out  of 
youth's  dreadful  inability  to  compromise. 

"She  can't  settle  down,"  Logan  continued.  "She  is 
a  creature  of  enormous  vitality  and  she  has  no  life  out- 
side herself,  no  imagination.  Can't  you  see  that  her 
vitality  has  no  outlet?  I  don't  know,  but  it  seems  to 
me  appalling  to  think  of  these  modern  women  with  their 
independence,  and  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it. 
won't  admit  the  authority  of  the  male,  and  they  have 
broken  out  of  the  home.  A  lot  of  them  refuse  to  have 
children.  I  feel  sorry  for  them." 

"Don't  go  on  talking  round  and  round  the  subject, 
cried  Mendel  wrathfully.     He  was  really  alarmed  and 
pained  as  he  saw  himself  being  carried  nearer  and  nearer 


374  MENDEL 


to  a  breach  with  his  friend.  "I  can't  feel  sorry  for  her 
and  I  don't.  She  is  ruining  you.  You  never  laugh  now- 
adays. You  are  always  more  dead  than  alive,  and  I  can- 
not bear  to  see  you  with  her.  I  cannot  bear  even  to  think 
of  you  with  her." 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  talk  like  that!"  muttered  Lo- 
gan, quickening  his  pace  to  keep  up,  for  Mendel  was 
flying  along. 

"You  must  either  give  her  up  or  me,"  said  Mendel. 

"Don't  say  that!"  pleaded  Logan;  "don't  say  that! 
I  can't  get  on  without  you.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  get 
on  without  you.  All  the  happiness  I  have  ever  had  has 
come  through  you.  Every  hope  I  have  is  centred  in 
you.  If  you  go,  life  will  become  nothing  but  work,  work, 
work,  with  nobody  to  understand.  Nobody.  .  .  .  And 
I  have  been  so  full  of  hope.  All  this  new  business  has 
made  such  a  stir  and  has  brought  such  life  into  painting 
that  I  had  begun  to  feel  that  anything  was  possible. 
There  might  be  even  a  stirring  of  the  spirit  to  stem  the 
tide  of  commercialism.  You  know  what  my  life  has 
been — one  long  struggle  to  find  a  way  out  of  the  pres- 
sure of  vulgarity  and  sordid  money-making,  out  of  sen- 
timentality and  pretty  lying  fantasy,  out  of  the  corrup- 
tion that  from  top  to  bottom  is  eating  up  the  life  of  the 
country.  You  know  that  when  I  met  you  I  had  almost 
given  up  the  struggle  in  despair.  One  man  alone  could 
not  do  it.  But  two  men  could — two  men  who  trusted 
and  believed  in  each  other.  .  .  .  You  were  very  young 
when  I  first  met  you,  but  you  have  come  on  wonder- 
fully. It  has  been  thrilling  for  me  to  watch  the  growth 
of  your  mind  and  the  strengthening  of  your  character. 
You  are  the  only  man  I  ever  met  who  could  really  stand 
by  himself.  ...  It  isn't  easy  for  me  to  say  all  this,  but 
I  must  tell  you  what  your  friendship  has  meant  to  me." 


REVELATION  375 


The  more  Logan  talked,  the  more  he  divulged  his  feel- 
ings, his  very  real  affection,  the  more  Mendel's  mind 
was  concentrated  on  the  one  purpose,  to  get  him  away 
from  Oliver. 

"You  must  give  her  up,"  he  said. 

"I  can't,"  gasped  Logan. 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  Mendel  staring  into 
his  friend's  eyes  that  looked  piteously,  wearily,  miser- 
ably out  of  his  haggard,  battered  face.  He  could  not 
endure  it,  and  he  could  not  yield  to  the  entreaty  in  Lo- 
gan's eyes. 

He  turned  quickly  and  ran  to  a  bus  which  had  stopped 
a  few  yards  in  front.  He  rushed  up  the  steps  and  was 
whirled  away.  Unable  to  resist  turning  round,  he  saw 
Logan  standing  where  he  had  left  him,  with  his  head 
bowed,  his  shoulders  hunched  up,  a  figure  of  shameful 
misery. 

After  some  minutes  of  numbness,  of  trying  to  gather 
up  the  threads  snapped  off  by  his  astonishment  at  the 
quickness  of  the  affair,  Mendel  began  to  tremble.  His 
hands  and  his  knees  shook,  and  he  could  not  control 
them.  It  was  only  gradually  that  he  began  to  realise 
how  strong  his  feelings  had  been,  and  how  great  the 
horror  and  the  shock  of  knowing  through  and  through, 
without  blinking  a  single  fact,  the  terrible  relationship 
that  bound  Logan  and  Oliver— tied  together  in  an  insa- 
tiable sensuality,  locked  in  a  deadly  embrace,  like  beasts 
of  prey  fighting  over  carrion :  a  furious,  evil  conflict  over 
a  dead  lust.  ...  At  the  same  time  he  knew  that  he  was 
bound  with  them,  that  in  their  life  together  he  had  his 
share,  and  that  it  was  dragging  him  down,  down  from 
the  ecstatic  exaltation  he  had  perceived  in  his  new  friend, 
Cezanne,  a  friend  who  could  never  fail,  a  friend  upon 


376  MENDEL 


whom  no  devastation  could  alight,  a  friend  through 
whom  he  could  never  be  clawed  back  into  life. 

By  the  time  he  reached  home  he  was  completely  ex- 
hausted, and  begged  his  mother  to  make  him  a  cup  of 
strong  tea. 

"What  is  it  now  ?"  Golda  asked.  "What  is  the  trouble  ? 
There  is  always  something  new,  and  I  think  you  will 
never  be  a  man.  For  a  man  expects  trouble  and  does 
not  make  himself  ill  over  it." 

"I  have  quarreled  with  Logan,"  said  Mendel,  dropping 
with  relief  into  Yiddish  as  a  barrier  against  the  outer 
world,  in  which  terrible  things  were  always  happening. 

"A  good  job  too!"  said  Golda;  "a  good  job  too!  He 
was  no  good  to  you.  He  only  made  you  do  the  work 
that  nobody  likes.  Now  you  can  go  back  to  the  old 
way,  and  Mr.  Froitzheim  and  Mr.  Birnbaum  will  be 
pleased  with  you  again.  .  .  .  You  had  better  give  up 
your  friends.  You  are  like  a  woman,  the  way  you  must 
always  be  in  love  with  your  friends.  .  .  .  But  it  is  no 
good.  Men  will  always  fall  in  love,  and  then  it  is  over 
with  friendship.  .  .  .  Friends  are  only  for  moments. 
They  come  and  disappear  and  come  again.  It  is  foolish 
to  think  you  can  keep  them.  ...  Is  your  head  bad  ?" 

"Pretty  bad." 

"You  have  not  been  drinking  again?" 

"No.  I've  been  leading  a  decent  life.  I  expect  it 
doesn't  suit  me." 

"Rubbish.  .  .  .  Rosa  says  the  Christian  girl  has  been 
to  see  you." 

He  leaped  to  his  feet.  \ 

"Didn't  she  stay?  Didn't  you  make  her  stay?  What 
did  she  say?  How  did  she  look?  Did  she  leave  no 
message?" 

Golda  smiled  at  him. 


REVELATION 


377 


"You  had  better  go  and  see,"  she  said. 

He  darted  from  the  room  and  across  to  his  studio 
panting  with  excitement,  persuading  himself  at  every 
step  that  she  was  there,  waiting  for  him,  perhaps  hiding 
to  tease  him,  for  she  was  a  terrible  tease. 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  studio  he  was  so  con- 
vinced that  she  was  there  that  he  hardly  dared  open 
the  door.  He  pushed  it  open  very  gently  and  peered  in". 
The  room  was  empty,  but  he  felt  sure  that  she  was  there. 
He  peeped  round  the  corner  into  his  bedroom.  She  was 
not  there.  He  had  to  believe  it,  and  came  dejectedly 
back  into  the  studio. 

On  his  painting-table  were  autumn  flowers  daintily  ar- 
ranged in  the  old  jug  he  used  for  a  vase.  He  buried 
his  face  in  them.  She  was  there!  She  was  there  in 
the  sweetness  and  fragrance  of  the  flowers. 


CHAPTER   VII 

CONFLICT 


T\>TORRISON  had  fought  bravely  through  her  storms 
•*•*•*•  and  difficulties.  She  frightened  Clowes  with  the 
violence  of  her  efforts  and  the  terrible  strain  she  in- 
flicted on  her  vitality.  There  were  times  when  she 
thought  the  simplest  way  would  be  to  cut  adrift  from 
all  her  old  associations  and  to  throw  in  her  lot  with 
Mendel,  to  give  him  his  desire  and  so  save  him  from 
the  terrible  life  he  was  leading.  But  that  was  too  dras- 
tic, too  simple.  She  could  only  have  done  it  on  a  great 
impulse,  but  always  her  deepest  feelings  shrank  from  it, 
and  without  her  deepest  feelings  she  could  not  go  to  him, 
for  they  were  engaged  most  of  all.  .  .  .  She  felt 
cramped  and  confined,  as  though  her  love  were  a  cord 
wound  round  and  round  her  limbs,  and  she  could  not,  she 
would  not  go  to  him  bound.  He  must  release  her;  she 
must  compel  him  to  release  her.  If  it  took  half  her  life- 
time she  would  so  compel  him.  Her  will  was  concen- 
trated upon  him.  She  would  not  have  their  love  droop 
from  the  high  sympathy  it  had  known,  nor  should  it 
be  torn  from  it  by  his  savage  strength  and  the  adorable 
violence  of  his  passion.  Neither,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  she  turn  back  from  him.  That  would  be  to  deny 
her  freedom  which  she  had  bought  so  dearly.  She  had 
thought  her  freedom  would  give  her  the  easy  joy  of 

378 


CONFLICT 


379 


flowers  and  clouds  and  birds,  and  she  still  believed  in 
that  easy  joy,  but  it  lay  beyond  the  tangled  web  of  this 
love  for  the  strange,  dark,  faunlike  creature  whom  she 
had  found  in  the  woods.  If  she  turned  back,  if  she 
denied  the  urgent  emotions  that  drove  her  on,  she  had 
nothing  to  turn  to  but  the  old  captivity,  the  life  where 
all  difficulties  were  arranged  for,  where  all  roads  led  to 
marriage,  where  men  could  only  talk  to  women  in  a  half- 
patronising,  half -flirtatious  way  that  led  to  a  ridiculous 
meeting  of  the  senses,  then  to  an  engagement,  and  so 
to  church.  To  that  she  would  never,  never  return.  She 
had  fought  her  way  out  of  it.  She  had  learned  to  live 
by  herself,  within  herself,  to  wrestle  with  her  thoughts 
and  emotions  and  to  get  them  into  shape.  (It  had  been 
at  a  great  cost  to  her  external  tidiness  and  orderliness, 
but  that  too  she  hoped  to  tackle  in  time.)  She  had 
won  all  this,  and  she  had  found  a  glorious  outlet  in 
work.  So  far  as  she  had  gone  she  had  been  successful, 
and  she  was  ambitious,  terribly  ambitious,  to  show  that 
a  woman  could  do  good  work. 

And  then  there  was  the  dark  side  of  Mendel's  life — 
Logan,  Oliver,  Jessie  Petrie.  At  the  thought  of  it  she 
shuddered,  but  her  honesty  made  her  confess  that  it 
made  no  difference  to  her  central  feeling.  It  had  shocked 
her,  outraged  her,  roused  her  to  a  fury  of  jealousy,  but 
that  she  would  not  have.  She  fought  it  down  inch  by 
inch  until  she  had  it  so  well  in  control  that,  whenever  it 
reared  its  head,  she  could  crush  it  down. 

Many  a  tear  had  it  cost  her,  but  she  insisted  that  she 
must  understand. 

When  she  cut  her  hair  short,  she  found,  to  her  horror, 
that  it  was  taken  by  many  men  as  a  sign  that  she  was 
open  to  their  advances,  and  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men  had  found  to  their  astonishment  that,  although 


380  MENDEL 


she  was  an  artist  and  lived  an  independent  life,  she  was 
immovable,  and  when  it  came  to  argument  she  was  more 
than  a  match  for  them. 

Again,  she  had  had  the  confidence  of  more  than  one 
of  the  models,  and  she  knew  how  they  courted  their  own 
disasters.  If  there  was  to  be  any  question  of  blame, 
the  women  must  share  it  with  the  men. 

She  had  no  thought  of  blaming  Mendel,  but  she  hated 
to  have  that  underworld  in  contact  with  the  world  which 
it  was  her  whole  desire  to  keep  beautiful.  It  was  no  good 
pretending  that  the  underworld  was  not  there,  but  if 
she  could  have  her  way  she  would  keep  a  tight  control 
over  it,  and  suppress  it  as  she  suppressed  her  jealousy, 
that  other  source  of  ugliness.  If  she  could  only,  some- 
how, find  an  entrance  to  Mendel's  life,  not  only  to  his 
rare  moments,  but  to  the  life  that  went  on  from  day  to 
day,  she  would  suppress  it,  she  would  cut  it  out  and  throw 
it  away.  She  thought  of  it  almost  as  a  surgical  opera- 
tion, or  as  cutting  a  bruise  out  of  an  apple,  for  all  her 
thoughts  of  life  were  as  simple  as  herself,  and  life  too 
was  simple  in  her  eyes.  Anything  that  threatened  to 
complicate  it  she  expunged. 

After  a  time  she  discovered  that  it  was  no  good  hoping 
to  understand  so  long  as  she  regarded  the  dark  aspect 
of  Mendel  from  outside  his  life.  She  must  find  her  way 
inside  it  and  see  how  it  looked  there.  That  was  hard. 

Clowes  could  not  help  her  at  all.  To  Clowes  it  was 
simply  unintelligible  that  men  could  do  these  things. 
They  bewildered  her,  and  her  only  way  out  of  it  was 
to  suppose  that  men  were  like  that,  and  the  less  said 
about  it  the  better.  She  was  really  very  annoyed  with 
Morrison  for  worrying  over  it,  and  she  was  disappointed. 
She  had  hoped  that  the  unfortunate  adventure  would  be 
over  and  that  Morrison  would  wait  tranquilly  for  her 


CONFLICT  381 


affections  to  be  engaged  by  some  one  who  was — present- 
able. .  .  .  Still,  there  was  no  accounting  for  this  strange, 
impulsive  creature,  though  it  was  a  pity  she  should  throw 
away  her  growing  popularity  with  people  who  were,  after 
all,  important,  both  in  themselves  and  by  their  position; 
for  Morrison's  frank  charm  carried  her  to  places  where 
Clowes  would  have  given  her  eyes  to  be  seen.  Clowes 
was  baffled  by  her  friend,  but  she  would  not  abandon 
her.  She  was  often  bored  with  her,  often  exasperated, 
and  more  than  once  she  said: — 

"Well,  if  you  like  these  wild  people  so  much,  why 
don't  you  take  the  plunge  and  join  them?  You  are  wild 
enough  yourself." 

"I'm  not  wild  in  that  way,"  replied  Morrison.  "And 
I  know  that  if  I  did  do  it  it  would  be  wrong." 

And  she  returned  to  her  task  of  labouring  to  under- 
stand Mendel.  She  carried  the  idea  of  him  wherever  she 
went,  and  was  sometimes  able  to  call  up  a  clear  image 
of  him,  and  she  was  fearful  for  him  because  he  seemed 
to  her  so  helpless,  so  much  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land, 
so  easily  caught  up  in  any  strong  current  of  feeling  or 
enthusiasm.  .  .  .  She,  too,  often  felt  outside  things,  but 
she  so  much  enjoyed  being  a  looker-on.  She  loved  to 
watch  the  race  among  the  young  artists,  and  she  longed 
for  Mendel  to  win.  It  was  right  that  he  should  win, 
because  he  was  so  much  the  best  of  them  all.  He  had 
taken  the  lead.  It  had  looked  as  though  he  must  in- 
fallibly win,  and  then  Logan  had  appeared  and  he  had 
stumbled  in  his  stride. 

Yet  this  had  never  been  satisfying.  She  had  no  right 
to  turn  Mendel  into  a  figure  on  a  frieze,  to  see  him  in 
the  flat,  as  it  were,  and  it  was  in  revolt  against  this  con- 
ception that  she  had  agreed  to  go  with  him  to  Logan's 
party,  which  had  been  so  disastrous.  .  .  .  Had  she  not 


382  MENDEL 

been  cowardly  to  run  away?  But  what  could  she  do, 
what  else  could  she  do,  when  confronted  so  suddenly 
with  the  appalling  fact? 

A  week  before  the  party  Mendel  had  insisted  on  lend- 
ing her  "Jean  .Christophe"  volume  by  volume.  She  had 
read  the  first  without  great  interest.  The  friendship  be- 
tween the  two  boys  struck  her  as  silly  and  sentimental 
and  not  worth  writing  about,  and  she  had  read  no  fur- 
ther. However,  when  she  found  that  Mendel  was  be- 
coming a  fixed  idea,  to  escape  from  it  she  took  up  the 
second  volume,  and  was  enthralled  by  the  tale  of  Chris- 
tophe's  love  for  Ada,  thrilled  by  the  sudden  scene  of  his 
assault  on  the  peasant  girl  in  the  field,  and  with  a  grow- 
ing sense  of  illumination  followed  his  life  as  it  passed 
from  woman  to  woman,  finding  consolation  with  one, 
relief  with  another,  comfort  with  another,  comradeship 
with  yet  another,  and  the  physical  relationship  slipped 
into  its  place  and  was  never  dominant.  And  Christophe, 
too,  had  had  women  of  passage  because  his  vitality  was 
so  abundant  that  it  could  not  be  contained  in  his  being. 
It  must  be  always  flowing  out  into  art  or  into  life,  taking 
from  life  more  and  more  power  to  give  to  art.  .  .  . 
With  Gratia  she  was  out  of  patience.  Gratia  was  alto- 
gether too  complacent  an  Egeria.  Morrison  thought  she 
could  have  given  Christophe  more  than  that. 

She  made  Clowes  read  the  book,  but  Clowes  found 
it  no  help.  That  was  in  a  story,  this  was  actually 
happening  in  London ;  and  besides,  the  book  had  a  rhap- 
sodic, dreamlike  quality  that  smoothed  away  all  ugliness, 
all  difficulties.  In  life  things  were  definitely  ugly,  and 
it  was  no  good  pretending  they  were  anything  else. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Morrison,  "I'm  going  on." 

"You  are  going  to  see  him  again?" 

"Yes,  I  will  not  be  beaten.     If  I  were  married  to 


CONFLICT  383 

him  I  should  put  up  with  everything,  and  I  don't  see 
why  not  being  married  should  make  any  difference." 
Clowes  threw  up  her  hands  and  said : — 
"Well,  if  you  come  to  grief,  don't  blame  me." 
"I'm  not  going  to  come  to  grief,"  said  Morrison.    "I'm 
going  to  win — I'm  going  to  win." 

It  was  then  that  she  went  out  and  bought  the  flowers. 
Her  courage  nearly  failed  her  as  she  approached  the  door 
in  the  little  slummy  street.  Suppose  he  should  be  angry 
with  her  for  running  away,  and  contemptuous  of  her 
cowardice !  His  anger  and  contempt  were  not  easy  things 
to  face. 

She  was  relieved,  therefore,  when  the  dirty  little  Jew- 
ish servant  opened  the  door  and  told  her  Mendel  was 
out.  She  handed  in  the  flowers  shyly  and  went  away 
without  a  word. 

Mendel  wrote  to  thank  her  for  the  flowers,  but  said 
nothing  about  going  to  see  her  or  about  what  he  was 
doing.  She  thought  he  must  be  contemptuous  of  her, 
though  it  was  not  like  him  to  be  so  stupid  as  not  to  re- 
spond to  a  direct  impulse.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had 
always  tried  to  impose  his  authority  on  her,  and  she  was 
not  going  to  do  his  bidding.  Either  he  must  take  her 
on  her  own  level  or  not  at  all.  She  would  make  him 
understand  that  she  too  was  driving  at  something,  and 
that  love  was  to  her  not  an  end  in  itself,  much  though 
she  might  desire  love  and  its  freedom.  He  had  always 
made  her  feel  that  he  regarded  love  as  sufficient  for 
her.  She  must  curl  up  in  it  and  be  happy  while  he  went 
on  with  his  work.  Against  that  all  the  free  instinct  in 
her  cried  out.  A  woman  was  not  a  mere  embryo  to  be 
incubated  in  a  man's  passion,  hatched  out  into  a  wife 
and  a  helpmate.  .  .  .  When  she  tried  to  imagine  what 


384  MENDEL 


life  with  him  would  be  like,  she  shivered  until  she  thought 
what  life  with  him  might  be  if  she  could  bring  to  it  all 
her  force  and  all  her  freedom. 

At  last  she  began  to  think  that  perhaps  it  was  her  own 
fault  for  not  having  left  a  note  or  a  message  with  the 
flowers,  which  might  be  regarded  only  as  a  token  of 
sentimental  forgiveness.  She  knew  how  easily  he  was 
sickened  by  any  sign  of  Christian  sentimentality — "filthy 
gush"  as  he  called  it.  ...  To  safeguard  against  that 
and  to  have  done  with  it  once  and  for  all,  she  wrote  to 
him  and  told  him  that  she  had  been  reading  "Jean  Chris- 
tophe,"  and  that  it  had  helped  her  to  understand  both  his 
sufferings  and  his  need  of  what  in  an  ordinary  foolish 
vain  man  would  have  to  be  condemned. 

To  this  letter  he  did  not  reply,  and  she  determined 
that  she  would  go  and  see  him.  She  would  take  Clowes, 
in  case  things  had  become  impossible  and  their  sympathy 
had  somehow  been  undermined  and  destroyed.  Even  if  it 
were,  she  would  not  accept  or  believe  it,  and  she  would 
fight  to  restore  it.  A  vague  intuition  took  possession  of 
her  by  which  she  surely  knew  that  something  strange, 
perhaps  even  terrible,  was  happening  to  him,  and  she 
felt  that  he  needed  her  but  did  not  know  his  need. 

It  required  some  persuasion  to  take  Clowes  down  to 
Whitechapel.  She  declared  that  she  would  stand  by  her 
friend  whatever  happened,  but  that  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
personally  mixed  up  in  it.  It  would,  she  said,  make  her 
in  part  responsible  for  whatever  happened,  and  she  did 
not  think  she  could  bear  it.  However,  Morrison  ex- 
plained that  she  only  wanted  her  there  in  case  things 
were  impossible,  and  that,  if  they  were  not,  she  could 
make  good  her  escape  as  soon  as  she  liked.  On  that 
Clowes  consented  and  they  journeyed  to  the  East  End. 

The  little  Jewish  servant  said  that  Mr.  Mendel  was 


CONFLICT  385 


engaged.  Would  she  go  up  and  see  if  he  would  soon  be 
disengaged  ?  She  ran  upstairs  and  came  down  in  a  mo- 
ment to  ask  if  they  would  wait,  and  to  their  surprise, 
darted  past  them,  along  the  street,  beckoned  to  them  to 
follow,  and  led  them  to  Golda's  kitchen.  Golda  bobbed 
to  them,  dusted  chairs  for  them  to  sit  on,  and,  not  know- 
ing enough  English  to  be  able  to  talk  to  them,  went  on 
with  her  ironing.  When  she  had  finished  that,  she  shyly 
produced  an  album  and  showed  them  all  the  photographs 
of  Mendel  since  he  was  a  baby. 

Meanwhile,  in  his  studio  Mendel  was  in  agitated  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Tilney  Tysoe,  who  had  arrived  half 
an  hour  before,  wagging  his  hands,  rolling  his  enormous 
eyes,  almost  demented  by  the  lamentable  news  he  had  to 
tell.  Logan  had  left  Oliver! 

"When?"  asked  Mendel. 

"A  few  days  ago,"  said  Tysoe.  "The  poor  fellow 
came  round  to  me  one  night  after  dinner.  You  know,  he 
often  drops  in  in  the  evening.  Such  a  splendid  fellow, 
so  sincere,  such  a  force !  And  his  admiration  for  you  is 
very  touching.  He  came  in  and  raved  like  a  madman  and 
said  terrible  things— oh,  terrible  things !  He  told  me  that 
I  was  a  fool  and  did  not  know  a  picture  from  my  foot, 
and  he  denounced  himself  as  a  scoundrel  and  a  thief  and 
a  liar.  He  wanted  me  to  destroy  all  the  pictures  I  had 
bought  from  him,  and  said  they  were  not  worth  the 
stretchers  of  the  canvas  they  were  painted  on.  ...  Oh ! 
it  was  terrible,  terrible !  He  said  that  for  years  he  had 
been  pulling  my  leg,  and  had  got  such  a  taste  for  it  that 
he  had  begun  to  pull  his  own  leg,  and  he  went  on  to  say 
that  his  soul  was  rotten  with  lies ;  and  then  he  broke  into 
a  torrent  of  wild,  splendid  stuff  that  made  my  spine 
tingle.  I  assure  you,  I  could  not  contain  my  enthusiasm. 


386  MENDEL 


.  .  .  Oh !  he  is  a  splendid  fellow.  ...  I  can't  remember 
it  all  very  well,  but  he  said  that  love  is  impossible  in 
the  world  as  it  is,  and  that  everybody  is  living  in  hate. 
It  sounded  most  true — most  true — though  you  know  I 
adore  my  wife.  .  .  .  He  said  that  humanity  has  tried 
aristocracy  and  failed,  and  it  has  tried  democracy  and 
failed.  It  has  swung  from  one  extreme  to  the  other  and 
found  satisfaction  in  neither,  and  now  it  must  bend  the 
two  extremes  together  so  as  to  get  the  electric  spark 
which  can  illumine  life,  and  also  to  create  a  circle  in 
which  life  can  be  contained.  Of  course,  I  haven't  got  it  at 
all  clear,  but  it  was  most  inspiring — most  inspiring.  Cer- 
tainly life  is  very  unsatisfactory,  and  it  must  be  mad- 
dening for  artists,  maddening,  though  of  course  it  should 
drive  them  on  to  make  a  mighty  effort.  We  are  all  look- 
ing to  the  artists  nowadays,  especially  since  that  won- 
derful exhibition." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mendel  impatiently;  "but  what  about 
Logan?" 

"He  told  me  you  had  quarrelled  with  him.  Such  a 
pity!  Dear  me!  dear  me!  You  were  such  a  splendid 
pair,  so  sincere.  He  said  it  was  irrevocable.  But,  you 
know,  'The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is 
of  love.'  Have  you  read  the  Oxford  'Book  of  Verse'? 
A  storehouse  of  poetry.  ...  I  came  to  see  you  for  that 
reason.  Quarrels  ought  not  to  be  irrevocable.  ...  I 
have  been  to  see  Oliver  too.  Poor  girl!  poor  girl!  I 
am  keeping  their  little  nest  at  Hampstead  for  them.  .  .  . 
I  told  Logan  he  ought  to  marry  her.  Of  course,  I  know, 
artists  have  their  own  view  on  that  subject,  but  there  is 
a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  marriage.  Most  people  are 
married,  you  know,  and  a  woman  who  is  not  married 
must  feel  out  of  it.  Nothing  to  do  with  morality,  of 
course,  but  you  know  what  women  are.  They  can't  bear 


CONFLICT  387 


even  their  clothes  to  be  different,  and,  after  all,  marriage 
is  only  a  garment  which  we  wear  for  decency's  sake." 

"But  where  is  Logan  ?" 

"That  I  don't  know,"  said  Tysoe.  "Oliver  said  he 
would  be  here.  She  said  it  was  your  fault  that  they  had 
quarrelled.  .  .  .  Poor  girl!  So  pretty  too!  ...  I 
thought  if  you  made  it  up  with  Logan,  then  he  could 
make  it  up  with  her  and  we  should  all  be  happy  again. 
We  might  have  a  nice  little  dinner  of  reconciliation  at  my 
house." 

"It  is  no  use,  no  use  whatever,"  said  Mendel.  "Logan 
might  go  back  to  her,  but  he  will  never  come  back  to 
me.  We  have  gone  different  ways,  not  only  in  life,  but 
in  our  work." 

"You  won't  make  it  up?"  asked  Tysoe  plaintively. 

"No,"  answered  Mendel.  "I  should  like  to,  but  it  is 
impossible.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  try  to  intervene. 
Logan  was  my  friend.  He  is  no  longer  the  same  man. 
He  is  altered,  he  is  changed,  he  is  done  for." 

"Nothing  could  ruin  a  man  like  that.  It  is  disastrous, 
it  is  terrible  that  he  should  lose  his  friend  and  the  girl 
he  loves  at  one  stroke.  Kuhler,  I  implore  you,  I  entreat 
you,  if  he  comes  to  see  you,  you  will  not  refuse  him." 

"If  he  comes  I  will  see  him,  certainly,"  said  Mendel. 

"Ah!  That  is  all  I  want,"  said  Tysoe,  beaming  hope- 
fully. 

"But  he  will  not  come." 

"We  shall  find  a  way.  We  shall  find  a  way.  ...  Ah! 
superb !"  he  added,  catching  sight  of  Mendel's  green- faced 
Mother.  "Ah!  The  new  spirit  at  work  in  your  art. 
Colour!  What  you  have  always  wanted!  .  .  .  How- 
how  much?" 

"Ten  pounds,"  said  Mendel. 

"May  I  take  it  with  me  ?    I  will  send  you  my  cheque." 


388  MENDEL 


Mendel  wrapped  the  picture  up  in  brown  paper  and 
gave  it  him,  told  him  he  must  go,  thanked  him  for  his 
kindness,  and  with  unutterable  relief  watched  him  go 
shambling  down  the  stairs. 

It  was  very  certain  that  Logan  would  not  come.  There 
could  be  nothing  but  futile  suffering  for  both  of  them, 
and  Logan  would  know  that  as  well  as  he.  Logan  knew 
himself  better  than  most  men,  and  he  must  have  felt  the 
finality  of  that  parting  in  the  street.  The  breach  was 
final  and  irrevocable,  for  Oliver  was  definitely  a  part  of 
Logan,  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  his  hand  or  his  eyes,  and 
Mendel  hated  Oliver  with  a  pure,  simple,  immovable  pas- 
sion. He  saw  in  her  embodied  the  natural  enemy  of  all 
that  he  loved :  order,  decency,  honesty,  art,  and  beauty. 
He  would  have  liked  to  blot  out  all  trace  of  her  every- 
where, but  she  lived  most  intensely  in  his  mind.  She  ex- 
isted for  him  hardly  at  all  as  a  person,  but  as  an  evil, 
fixed  will  set  on  the  destruction  of  Logan,  of  friendship, 
of  art,  of  love,  of  beauty,  of  everything  that  lived  dis- 
tinctly and  clearly  and  with  a  flame-like  energy.  She 
existed  to  drag  all  down  into  the  glowing  ashes  of  lust 
and  lies.  There  were  times  when  she  became  symbolical 
of  that  Christian  world  that  had  made  him  suffer  so  in- 
tensely. In  her  was  the  only  discernible  will  of  that 
world  in  which  everything  was  losing  shape  and  form, 
every  flame  was  dying  down,  and  "everything,  good  and 
bad,  was  being  reduced  to  ashes. 

"Good  and  bad?"  thought  Mendel.  "I  don't  know 
what  they  mean.  I  know  what  is  false  and  what  is  true. 
What  is  false  I  hate.  What  is  true  I  love.  That  woman 
is  a  lie  and  I  hate  her,  and  I  wish  she  were  dead." 

Logan  might  hate  her  too,  but  he  would  always  try,  al- 
ways hope  to  love  her,  always  waste  himself  in  trying  to 


CONFLICT  389 


kindle  her  lust  into  a  passion.  The  fool,  the  weak  fool ! 
Let  her  rot;  let  her  drop  down  to  her  own  level,  where 
she  could  be  decently  a  beast  of  prey,  marked  out  to  be 
shunned  except  by  those  who  were  her  natural  victims. 
Logan  was  too  good :  but  if  there  was  so  much  good  in 
him,  might  not  something  be  done?  .  .  .  No.  Only  Lo- 
gan's own  will  could  save  him.  Nothing  could  be  done 
for  him  except  out  of  pity :  and  who  wants  pity?  Leave 
that  to  men  like  Tysoe,  the  kindly,  emasculate  fools  of 
the  world. 

Yet  mendel  knew  that  he  was  bound  to  Logan.  At 
first  he  thought  it  must  be  by  pity,  but  it  was  deeper 
than  that.  There  was  not  much  capacity  for  pity  in 
Mendel.  Ruthless  with  himself,  he  could  see  no  reason 
why  others  should  be  spared  what  he  himself  was  ready 
to  endure.  He  had  never  thought  that  others  might  be 
weaker  than  he.  Logan,  for  instance,  with  ten  years' 
more  experience  behind  him,  had  always  seemed  in- 
finitely stronger. 

And  so  Logan  had  left  Oliver!  There  must  have 
been  a  terrible  row.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  he  would  go  back  to 
her.  There  would  be  no  end  to  the  affair,  there  could 
be  no  end  unless  Logan  were  strong  enough  to  stand 
by  himself.  But  when  had  he  ever  tried  to  do  that? 
Even  in  his  work  he  borrowed  here  and  there.  Mendel 
was  sure  now  that  all  Logan's  work  had  grown  out  of 
his  own,  and  was  often,  by  some  amazing  sleight  of 
mind,  an  anticipation  of  his  own  ideas.  That  explained 
a  good  deal :  his  growing  sense  that  Logan  was  really 
his  enemy,  and  was  cramping  and  thwarting  him,  a 
sense  that  endured  even  after  the  quarrel.  It  was  strong 
upon  him  now.  Tysoe  had  brought  Logan  vividly  to  his 
mind  and  made  him  feel  impotent,  possessed  by  a  vision 
of  art  but  unable  to  move  a  step  towards  it,  rather 


390  MENDEL 


dragged  further  and  further  away  from  it.  He  was 
ashamed  when  he  thought  of  how  often  he  had  excitedly 
followed  Logan's  lead,  only  to  come  now  to  this  dis- 
covery that  he  was  brought  back  to  his  own  inchoate 
ideas.  .  .  .  He  was  reminded  oddly  of  the  journalist 
who  had  interviewed  him  after  his  first  success  and  had 
produced  so  grotesque  a  parody  of  his  innocently  con- 
ceited remarks. 

A  tap  at  the  door  reminded  him  of  the  "two  young 
ladies"  who  were  waiting  to  see  him.  He  rushed 
eagerly  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open,  thinking  to  find 
healing  and  refreshment  in  the  sight  of  Morrison. 
Only  Clowes  was  standing  there,  and  in  his  disappoint- 
ment her  face  seemed  to  him  so  foolish  and  flabby  and 
idiotic  that  his  impulse  was  to  shut  the  door.  .  .  .  He 
would  bang  the  door  in  her  face  and  it  would  shut  out 
the  Christian  world  for  ever.  It  did  not  want  him,  and 
he  did  not  want  it,  for  it  was  full  of  lies.  .  .  .  Then  he 
heard  a  footstep  on  the  stairs  and  Morrison  appeared. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.    "Come  in." 

"I  can't  stay  long,"  said  Clowes  nervously. 

"All  right,"  he  replied. 

Morrison  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  he  stood 
looking  at  her. 

"How  are  you?" 

"I'm  very  well." 

She  was  horrified  at  the  change  in  him.  He  looked  so 
tragic  and  drawn. 

"Clowes  can't  stop  long,"  she  said.  "But  I'll  stop,  if 
I  may.  I  should  like  to." 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  got  anything  to  show  you.  I 
haven't  been  working  lately." 

"It  seems  to  be  a  pretty  general  complaint,"  said 
Clowes.  "Everybody  is  so  upset  by  the  French  pictures. 


CONFLICT  391 


I  should  like  to  shake  that  Thompson  until  his  teeth  rat- 
tled. He  is  so  pleased  with  himself." 

"He's  an  awful  man,"  muttered  Mendel.  "He  seems 
to  think  he  told  Cezanne  and  Van  Gogh  how  to  do  it. 
There  seems  to  be  a  whole  army  of  men  ready  to  take 
the  credit  of  a  thing  when  some  one  else  has  done  it. 
I  suppose  they  are  all  talking  like  mad." 

"What  is  so  astonishing  is  that  these  things  are  actu- 
ally selling,  and  people  who  never  sold  a  picture  in  their 
lives  dab  a  few  straight  lines  on  a  picture  and  off  it  goes." 

Mendel  laughed. 

"I've  just  sold  one,"  he  said.  "I  came  straight  back 
from  the  exhibition  and  painted  it.  They  sell  just  as  if 
they  were  a  new  kind  of  toy  that  is  all  the  rage." 

So  they  kept  up  a  cheerful  rattle  of  conversation  until 
Clowes  said  she  really  must  go.  No ;  she  would  not  have 
tea,  but  she  hoped  Mendel  would  come  to  tea  with  her 
one  day. 

He  saw  her  to  the  front  door  and  ran  upstairs  again, 

three  steps  at  a  time. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "what  have  you  come  for,  and 
why  did  you  bring  her?" 

"In  case  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  and  this  visit 
was  another  failure.  I'm  sick  of  failure ;  aren't  you  ?" 

"I  didn't  answer  your  letter.     I  thought  it  was  all 

over."  fj 

"But  I  told  you  what  had  made  me  change. 
"It  was  nothing  to  do  with  that.     Everything  seemed 

all  over,  and  I'm  not  sure  even  now  that  it  isn't." 

"I  knew  something  was  happening  to  you.     What  is 

it?" 

"I've  quarrelled  with  Logan." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  she 

said : — 


392  MENDEL 


"I'm  so  glad." 

"You  didn't  like  him.    Why?" 

"I  thought  him  second-rate." 

"He  isn't  that.  He  has  a  good  mind,  and  he  was  a 
good  friend." 

"Are  you  so  sure  of  that?" 

"Of  some  things  in  him — of  his  affection,  for  instance 
— I  am  as  sure  as  I  am  of  myself." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"Yes.  That  is  saying  a  good  deal.  But  why  did  you 
quarrel?" 

"It  was  over  his  woman." 

"Oh  yes!"      ,     , 

"He  has  left  her." 

"Has  he  been  to  see  you?" 

"No.  It  was  a  friend  of  his.  I  don't  know  what  will 
happen.  They  are  bound  to  come  together  again.  Per- 
haps they  will  go  through  life  like  that — parting  and 
coming  together  again.  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head.  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  It  is  like  my  father  knocking  a 
drunken  soldier  down  with  a  glass.  I  never  forget  that, 
though  it  was  different.  That  was  just  something  that 
I  saw.  This  is  in  my  own  life.  I  feel  as  though  it  had 
somehow  happened  through  me.  I  was  with  him  when 
he  met  her,  you  know,  and  his  whole  life  changed  when 
he  met  me.  Perhaps  he  wasn't  meant  to  take  things  seri- 
ously. ...  I  didn't  write  to  you  because  I  didn't  want  to 
drag  you  into  it.  But  I'm  glad  you've  come.  I'm  glad 
you've  come.  .  .  .  You  know,  it  was  beginning  to  be  a 
horror  with  me  that  Logan  would  come  in  at  that  door, 
looking  like  a  poor,  battered,  broken  little  Napoleon, 
and  I  should  have  to  tell  him  that  I  was  not  his  friend. 
.  .  .  You  know,  he  was  something  vital  and  living  in  my 
work,  but  Cezanne  has  kicked  him  out.  He  was  only  my 


CONFLICT  393 


friend  really  in  my  work,  and  if  that  goes  everything 
goes.  I  couldn't  explain  it  to  him,  for  he  wouldn't  un- 
derstand. He  used  to  laugh  at  me  for  talking  about  my 
work  to  you.  I'm  afraid  I  told  him  more  about  you  than 
I  ought  to  have  done,  but,  you  see,  he  was  my  friend. 
He  laughed  at  everything.  He  ought  to  have  been  a  very 
happy  man,  the  way  he  laughed  at  everything." 

He  placed  in  her  hands  his  reproduction  of  Cezanne's 
portrait  of  his  wife. 

"That's  better  than  Cranach,"  he  said. 

"But  why  is  her  mouth  crooked?"  asked  Morrison, 
puzzled  by  the  picture  and  by  his  setting  it  above  Cranach. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mendel,  "but  Cezanne  knew 
when  he  did  it." 

And  he  tried  to  explain  the  making  of  the  picture, 
but  she  could  not  understand  it.  However,  she  could 
understand  and  love  his  enthusiasm,  and  they  were  both 
happy,  talking  rather  aimlessly  and  often  relapsing  into 
silence. 

"I  never  can  make  out,"  he  said,  "why  you  are  more 
wonderful  to  me  than  anybody  else.  Directly  I  am  with 
you,  I  am  not  so  much  happy  as  free.  Even  if  I  am 
miserable  and  you  don't  make  me  any  happier,  I  want 
you  with  me.  ...  You  mustn't  go  away  again." 

"No.    I  don't  want  to  go  away." 

"Why  need  you  actually  go?  Why  shouldn't  you  stay 
here  now?  Stay  with  me.  Don't  go.  Don't  think  of 
going.  I  want  you  always  with  me.  .  .  .If  you  don't  like 
the  place  we  will  find  another  studio  and  go  there.  And 
if  you  want  to  be  married  we  can  get  married  at  once. 
I  have  nearly  a  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank." 

He  knelt  by  her  side  and  held  her  knees  in  his  two 
hands.  She  took  his  face  in  her  hands  and  said  gently  :— 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Mendel.     Please  don  t 


394  MENDEL 


think  I  don't  love  you  because  I  don't  want  you  to  talk 
like  that.  It  is  the  first  thing  to  come  into  your  mind, 
but  with  me  it  is  almost  the  last  thing.  I  want  love 
to  be  very,  very  beautiful  before  it  comes  to  me.  I  want 
love  to  be  as  beautiful  to  me  as  that  picture  of  Cezanne's 
is  to  you.  Do  you  understand  me?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  turned  away  from  her. 

"No,  I  don't!"  he  shouted;  "no,  I  don't!" 

He  was  wildly  angry.  Her  words  had  acted  like  salt 
upon  his  raw  feelings. 

"No,  I  don't  understand  you.  You  want  love  to  be 
like  art.  You  want  to  mix  love  up  with  art.  Love  be- 
longs to  life.  Love  is  rich  and  ripe  and  warm.  You  want 
it  to  be  like  the  dew  on  the  grass.  It  can't  be ! — dt  can't 
be!  Love  bursts  out  of  a  man's  body  into  his  soul,  and 
you  want  it  to  live  in  his  soul  and  to  leave  him  with  an 
impotent,  cold  body.  You  want  me  to  bend  to  your 
woman's  will,  for  you  know  I  cannot  break  away  from 
you.  You  are  with  your  soul  like  Oliver  with  her  body. 
You  are  with  your  love  like  Oliver  with  her  lust,  and 
Logan  and  I  are  a  pair — a  miserable,  broken  pair." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  "You 
are  wrong,  wrong,  hideously  wrong.  You  have  under- 
stood nothing  at  all.  Your  mind  has  rushed  away  with 
you.  For  God's  sake  be  quiet  for  a  little,  to  see  if  we 
can't  get  it  straight." 

His  desire  was  to  batter  down  her  opposition,  yet 
he  could  not  but  realise  that  she  was  too  strong,  and 
that  he  would  only  do  grievous  and  useless  harm.  He 
controlled  himself,  therefore,  and  was  silent.  At  last  he 
grunted : — 

"Can't  you  make  me  see  what  you  mean?" 

"It  isn't  a  thing  I  could  say  in  cold  blood,"  she  said. 


CONFLICT  395 

He  moved  towards  her,  but  she  held  up  her  hands  to 
ward  him  off. 

"No,  no!"  she  almost  whispered.  "That  only  makes 
my  heart  grow  colder  and  colder  until  it  aches." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you — don't — want  me?" 

"Foolish,  foolish,  foolish!"  she  said.  "If  you  loved 
me  one  tenth  part  as  much  as  I  love  you,  you  would  know 
what  I  mean." 

"I  don't,"  he  said  simply.  "I  don't,  honestly  I  don't. 
Perhaps  you  are  so  beautiful  to  me  that  I  am  blinded 
with  it." 

Of  the  truth  of  her  feeling  against  him  he  had  no 
doubt,  but  though  he  laboured  bitterly  to  understand  it, 
he  could  make  nothing  of  it.  He  was  driven  back  on  his 
simple  need  for  her. 

"Very  well,"  he  said;  "if  it  makes  you  feel  like  that 
for  me  to  touch  you,  I  never  will.  Only  don't  talk  of 
loving  me  more  than  I  love  you.  It  isn't  true." 

"Yes.  It  was  silly  of  me  to  say  that,"  she  agreed.  "It 
isn't  true." 

"What  do  you  want,  then?" 

"I  want  to  share  as  much  of  your  life  as  I  can." 

"It  is  a  bleak,  grimy  business,  a  good  deal  of  it." 

"I  want  to  share  it." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  in  it  that  will  horrify  you." 

"I  must  get  used  to  that.  .  .  .  When  I  am  in  London 
I  want  you  to  promise  that  you  will  see  me  at  least 
once  a  week." 

"There  are  seven  days  in  the  week.     Let  it  be  seven 

times." 

She  laughed  at  that. 

"And  some  day,"  she  went  on,  "I  want  to  take  you 
down  into  the  country." 


396  MENDEL 


He  began  to  suspect  her  of  wanting  to  meddle  with 
his  work. 

"I  don't  want  the  country,"  he  rapped  out.  "I  am  a 
Londoner.  All  the  life  I  care  about  is  in  the  streets  and 
in  the  houses,  in  the  restaurants  and  the  shops,  and  the 
costers'  barrows  and  the  cinemas  and  the  picture  gal- 
leries. That  is  why  I  live  here,  because  I  love  the  coarse, 
thrumming  vitality  all  round  me." 

"But  /  want  the  country,"  she  said,  "and  you  should 
know  the  life  /  love." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  key  to  the 
mystery  she  talked  of  was  in  his  hands.  He  clutched 
at  it  and  it  evaded  him,  but  his  idolatry  of  her  was  shaken, 
and  he  began  dimly  to  see  her  as  a  creature  like  himself, 
with  feelings,  thoughts,  desires,  and  a  will.  There  was 
no  doubt  at  all  about  the  will,  and  he  had  to  recognise  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OLIVER 


'  I  AHEN  began  a  period  of  quiet,  happy  friendship  for 
•*•  them  both.  Mendel  was  astonishingly  amenable  to 
many  of  her  disciplinary  suggestions  and  allowed  her 
to  cut  his  hair  (though  not  without  thinking  of  Delilah), 
and  when  she  ordered  him  to  get  some  new  clothes  he 
went  off  obediently  to  a  friend  of  Issy's  and  had  a  suit 
made — West  End  style  at  East  End  prices. 

"You  will  soon  have  me  looking  like  a  Public  School 
gentleman,"  he  said. 

"Never!"  she  replied.  "You  will  never  move  like  one 
— thank  goodness." 

"Why  thank  goodness?" 

"Because  they  walk  about  as  though  they  owned  the 
earth  and  the  fatness  thereof,  as  though  the  earth  ex- 
isted for  them  to  walk  about  on  it  without  their  need- 
ing even  to  look  at  it  to  see  how  beautiful  it  is." 

"That's  like  Logan,"  he  said.  "He  used  always  to  be 
railing  against  the  English.  He  said  they  had  no  eyes, 
only  stomachs.  But  I  think  the  English  must  be  the 
nicest  people  in  the  world,  for  there  is  no  place  like  Lon- 
don for  living  in." 

Indeed,  they  both  thought  there  could  be  no  place 
like  London.  Once  or  twice  a  week  they  dined  together 
at  the  Pot-au-Feu  and  went  on  to  a  party  or  to  a  music- 

397 


398  MENDEL 


hall  or  to  the  cinema,  which  he  adored.  He  said  it  gave 
him  ideas  for  pictures  and  that  there  were  often  wonder- 
ful momentary  pictures  thrown  on  the  screen. 

"The  cinema  does  what  the  bad  artists  have  been  try- 
ing to  do  for  generations.  It  is  a  great  relief  to  have  it 
done  by  a  machine.  The  artist  need  not  any  more  try 
to  be  a  machine.  There  is  no  need  for  him  now  to  please 
the  public.  He  can  leave  all  that  to  the  machine  and  go 
straight  for  art.  The  few  decent  people  will  follow  him, 
and  what  more  does  he  want?  Art  is  not  for  the  fools. 
.  .  .  Logan  was  wrong.  He  wanted  art  to  go  to  the 
people.  That  is  all  wrong.  The  people  must  come  up 
to  art.  When  they  are  sick  of  the  machine,  art  is  there, 
ready  for  them."  He  added  naively,  "I  shall  be  there, 
waiting  for  them." 

He  loved  especially  the  dramas,  when  they  were  not 
clogged  and  obscured  with  sentimentality.  The  simple 
values  that  governed  them,  the  triumph  of  virtue  and  the 
downfall  of  evil,  appealed  to  him  as  solid,  as  related  to 
a  process,  a  drama,  that  went  on  in  himself,  and,  he 
supposed,  in  everybody  else.  It  worried  and  annoyed 
him  when  Morrison  made  fun  of  these  values  and  jeered 
at  them. 

"But  things  don't  work  like  that,"  she  protested. 

"I  think  they  do,"  he  said. 

"Good  people  are  often  crushed,"  she  replied,  "and  bad 
people  often  have  things  all  their  own  way." 

"But  it  is  inside  people  that  it  happens  like  that.  False 
people  have  their  souls  eaten  away  with  lies,  and  true 
people  have  free,  happy  souls  like  yours.  Being  rich  or 
poor,  or  what  you  call  good  or  bad,  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  Yes.  It  is  inside  people  that  it  happens  like 
that,  and  I  am  more  often  the  villain  than  the  hero 
inside  myself." 


OLIVER  399 

"It  seems  absurd  to  me,  and  I  can't  think  why  you 
should  take  it  seriously." 

"It  is  because  you  are  so  idiotically  good.  You  have 
only  one  side  to  your  nature.  You  are  like  a  heroine 
in  your  Dickens." 

"I'm  not.  I'm  sure  I'm  not.  I'm  bad-tempered  and 
mean  and  unjust." 

"You  don't  even  know  how  bad  I  am.  You  have  no 
more  idea  of  what  my  life  is  like  than  a  rose  has  of 
an  onion's." 

"I  don't  like  onions." 

"That's  the  trouble.  You  don't  like  the  smell  of 
onions,  and  so  you  don't  eat  them.  Very  poor  people 
live  on  bread  and  onions  and  they  find  them  good.  I 
have  no  patience  with  you.  You  want  to  be  a  rose 
growing  in  a  sheltered  English  garden." 

"I  don't.    I  don't  want  anything  of  the  kind." 

"A  wild  rose,  then;  and  you  have  no  right  to  want 
such  a  life.  You  are  not  a  flower.  You  are  a  human 
being,  and  you  can't  have  a  sheltered  life,  or  a  summer 
hedgerow  life,  because  you  have  truth  and  falsehood 
in  you,  and  if  you  will  not  live  for  the  truth  you  will 
die  for  the  falsehood.  That  is  why  cinemas  are  good 
and  theatres  are  rotten.  All  the  plays  are  false,  because 
they  have  forgotten  truth  and  falsehood  and  are  all  about 
being  rich  or  poor,  or  old  or  young,  or  married  or  un- 
married, and  in  the  worst  plays  of  all  they  are  about 
people  pretending  to  be  children  so  as  to  get  out  of  the 
whole  thing.  I  hate  you  sometimes  when  you  seem  to 
be  trying  that  game  of  refusing  to  be  grown  up,  denying 
your  own  feelings  and  letting  men  love  you  and  pre- 
tending yo'i  don't  know  what  it  is  all  about." 

"I  never  do  that,"  she  cried  indignantly. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  said,  unable  to  resist  the  tempta- 


400  MENDEL 


tion  to  press  home  the  advantage  he  had  won  in  rousing1 
her  out  of  her  placid  happiness.  "I'm  not  so  sure.  There 
are  too  many  girls  do  that." 

"I  don't.  I  may  have  done  it.  But  I  have  never  done 
it  with  you.  It  is  a  wicked  lie  to  say  anything  of  the 
kind." 

"You  can't  blame  me  if  I  catch  at  any  idea  that  will 
help  me  to  understand  you." 

"You  never  will,  if  you  go  grubbing  about  with  your 
mind." 

"Oh !  my  mind  is  no  good,  is  it?  Then  take  your  hands 
off  my  feelings.  They'll  understand  you  right  enough." 

"No.    They  won't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  they're  blind." 

"Good  God !    What  am  I  to  do,  then  ?" 

"Wait." 

"How  long?" 

"Till  you  can  see." 

"I  never  shall  see  more  than  I  do  now.  If  you  love 
me,  why  don't  you  love  me  as  I  am?" 

"I  do.  But  you  don't  know  what  you  are — yet,  and 
you  don't  know  what  I  am." 

"I  know  what  I  want." 

"It  isn't  what  I  want." 

"If  you  knew  at  all  what  I  wanted,  you  would  want 
it  too." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Love." 

"You've  got  it." 

"You  don't  call  this  love?" 

"I  do." 

"Then  I  don't.  It  is  just  playing  the  fool — wasting 
time." 


OLIVER  401 

"It  isn't  wasting  time.  We  are  much  better  friends 
than  we  were." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  friends.  I've  had  enough  of 
friends.  They  have  never  done  me  any  good.  It's  a 
silly,  thin  kind  of  happiness  at  best." 

"It  is  better  than  no  happiness  at  all,  which  the  other 
would  be." 

"How  can  you  say  that?"  he  cried,  revolted.  "How 
can  you  say  that?  Every  thought,  every  dream  I  have 
is  centred  on  it.  It  is  such  happiness  that  my  imagina- 
tion is  baffled  by  it." 

"Please  let  us  stop  talking  about  it.  We  are  only  get- 
ting horribly  at  cross-purposes." 

He  had  learned  when  it  was  wise  to  stop,  but  he  needed 
every  now  and  then  the  assurance  that  her  serene  confi- 
dence was  shot  with  doubt.  Once  or  twice  when  he  had 
tried  to  thrust  her  back  on  her  doubts  she  had  flared  up, 
and  had  fought  tooth  and  nail,  declaring  that  she  would 
never  see  him  again.  And,  as  he  knew  she  meant  it,  he 
yielded,  and  said  that  any  sacrifice  was  better  than  that. 

On  her  part,  as  she  came  more  nearly  to  see  his  point 
of  view,  she  was  often  shaken  and  tempted  to  admit  that 
he  was  right.  There  was  no  looseness  or  formlessness 
about  his  ideas.  He  lived  in  a  world  that  apparently 
made  room  for  everything,  a  world  in  which  he  stood 
solidly  on  his  feet  while  the  waves  of  life  broke  upon 
him,  and  he  only  absorbed  into  himself  that  which  his 
passions  needed.  It  was  a  plain,  simple  world,  where 
good  and  evil  were  equally  true,  and,  apparently,  largely 
a  matter  of  chance— -a  world  in  which  he  was  gloriously 
independent.  But  was  he  free?  Sometimes  she  thought 
that  he  was  amazingly  free.  His  only  prejudice  seemed 
to  be  against  pink,  fleshy  young  men  who  had  to  do  noth- 
ing for  a  living — young  men  like  her  brothers,  for  in- 


402  MENDEL 


stance,  of  whom  she  had  drawn  an  amusing  series  of 
caricatures  showing  the  effect  of  introducing  Mendel 
to  them.  .  .  .  Sometimes  she  wondered  if  her  own  long- 
ing for  freedom  was  not  just  her  ignorance,  just  a  craven 
desire  to  escape  from  knowing  anything  about  life,  to 
remain  an  amused  but  fundamentally  indifferent  on- 
looker. And  when  she  had  to  face  the  suffering  she  in- 
flicted on  him,  then  she  was  often  moved  to  cry  out 
within  herself : — 

"Oh!  Take  me,  take  me!  Have  your  will.  It  will 
make  an  end  of  it  all,  and  you  will  pass  on  and  forget 
me,  but  you  will  no  longer  suffer  through  me." 

But  she  could  not  bend  her  own  will,  which  insisted 
that  the  treasure  she  desired  lay  through  him,  and  that 
he  needed  it  even  more  than  she.  It  was  because  of  his 
need  that  he  clung  to  her  through  all  his  suffering  and 
exasperation.  .  .  .  Why,  why  was  he  so  blind  that  he 
could  not  see  it?  Why  could  he,  who  was  so  sure  and 
so  strong,  not  see  what  was  to  her  so  clear  through  all 
her  vacillation  and  all  the  confusion  of  her  idealism? 
.  .  .  She  tried  to  make  him  read  English  poetry,  but  he 
could  make  little  of  it,  and  said  none  of  it  was  worth 
the  Bible.  He  declared  that  Shelley  wrote  romantical 
nonsense,  because  men  could  never  be  made  perfect,  and 
it  was  cruelly  absurd  to  try  it — like  dressing  a  monkey 
up  in  human  clothes.  And  he  countered  by  making  her 
read  "Candide." 

"When  you  have  been  through  as  much  as  Cune- 
gonde,"  he  said,  "I'll  believe  in  your  purity." 

"It  isn't  purity  that  I'm  fussing  about." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"Don't  let  us  begin  it  all  over  again." 

They  found  common  ground  in  Blake,  whom  Mendel 


OLIVER  403 

consented  to  read  because  Blake  was  the  only  English 
painter  who  had  had  any  idea  of  art  at  all. 

Blake  brought  them  much  closer  together,  and  their 
tussles  were  sharper,  but  less  futile  and  exasperating. 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  lesson  from  Mrs.  Blake?"  he 
asked,  after  they  had  read  the  Life. 

"What?  And  sit  and  hold  your  hand?  You'd  turn 
round  and  hit  me." 

"I  believe  I  would,"  he  laughed.  "By  Jove!  I  believe 
I  would." 

He  was  not  easy  for  her  to  handle.  It  was  like  play- 
ing with  high  explosives,  save  that  she  was  not  playing. 

She  said  to  him  once,  when  they  had  come  very  near 
the  intimacy  she  desired : — 

"I  believe  you  would  understand  me  if  only  you  could 
let  go." 

"How  can  I  let  go,"  he  roared,  "when  I  feel  that  you 
are  weighing  and  judging  and  criticising  every  word  I 
say,  every  thing  I  do  ?" 

And  she  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  It  was  a  new  and 
dreadful  idea,  that  she  was  hemming  him  in  by  making 
him  feel  that  she  was  judging  him.  It  was  so  far  from 
her  intention  that  she  protested : — 

"I  am  not  judging  you.  I  accept  you  just  as  you 
are." 

"Accept!"  he  grumbled.  "Accept!  When  you  keep 
me  at  arm's-length !" 

"I  go  as  far  as  we  can,  then  it  breaks  down." 

"What  breaks  down  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  call  it.    Sympathy,  if  you  like." 

"Oh!  then  if  it  breaks  down  it  isn't  any  good,  and  we 
may  as  well  give  it  up  for  ever.  I  will  learn  to  shuffle 
along  without  you." 


404  MENDEL 

"I  won't  shuffle.    I  refuse  to  hear  of  your  shuffling." 

"Then  you  want  to  know  what  to  do  ?" 

"What?" 

"Take  your  place  by  my  side,  walk  along  with  me  like 
a  sober,  decent  woman." 

"But  I  want  to  fly  with  you,  hand  in  hand." 

She  was  elated,  exalted.  Her  eyes  shone  and  she 
glowed  with  excitement  and  hope.  Surely  he  would 
understand  now!  Surely  she  had  found  words  for  it 
at  last! 

"That's  rubbish,"  he  said.  "Men  aren't  birds,  and 
they  are  not  angels.  If  you  want  to  fly,  go  up  in  an 
airyoplane.  That's  another  machine  like  the  cinema.  It 
relieves  human  beings  of  another  mania." 

She  turned  away  to  hide  the  tears  that  had  gushed 
to  her  eyes.  Why  did  he  waste  his  strength?  Why  did 
he  keep  his  force  from  entering1  into  his  imagination? 

That  evening  was  most  miserable  for  her,  and  she  was 
glad  when  it  came  to  an  end. 

To  add  to  her  difficulties  he  was  making  himself  ill 
over  his  work,  which,  as  he  said,  had  gone  completely 
rotten,  and  he  did  not  scruple  to  ascribe  it  to  her.  He 
would  spend  a  delightful  happy  evening  with  her  and 
feel  that  his  difficulties  were  over,  that  in  the  morning 
he  would  be  able  to  make  a  beginning  upon  all  the  ideas 
that  were  so  jumbled  and  close-packed  in  his  head.  But 
in  the  morning  he  would  be  dull  and  nerveless,  and 
though  he  might  work  himself  up  into  a  frenzy,  yet  he 
could  produce  nothing  that  was  any  good.  His  work 
was  easier,  and  even  a  little  better,  after  the  evenings 
when  they  almost  quarrelled. 

Again  and  again  he  told  himself  that  he  could  not  go 
on,  that  life  was  as  thick  and  heavy  as  the  air  before 


OLIVER  405 

a  thunderstorm.  Often  he  thought  that  this  density, 
this  opaqueness,  with  which  he  was  surrounded,  meant 
that  he  must  quarrel  and  break  with  her  once  and  for 
all.  It  would  nearly  kill  him  to  do  it,  but  if  it  must 
be  done,  the  sooner  the  better.  Perhaps  it  was  wrong 
for  him  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  Christian  world 
at  all.  No  single  friendship  or  relationship  that  he  had 
had  in  it  had  been  successful  or  of  any  profit  to  him. 
Little  by  little  his  peace  of  mind  had  been  taken  from 
him.  Everything  had  been  taken  from  him,  even,  now, 
his  work.  .  .  .  That  he  would  not  have.  He  set  his 
teeth  and  stuck  to  it,  every  day  and  all  day,  but  the  few 
pictures  he  turned  out  did  not  sell.  Cluny  would  not  have 
them,  and  they  were  rejected  by  the  exhibitions,  even 
by  the  club  of  which  he  was  a  member. 

Of  all  this  he  said  not  a  word  to  a  soul,  not  even  to 
Morrison,  not  even  to  Golda.  His  money  was  dwindling. 
That  put  marriage  out  of  the  question.  Fate,  or  the 
ominous  pressure  of  life,  or  whatever  it  was,  played  into 
Morrison's  hands. 

Every  now  and  then,  unable  to  endure  this  pressure, 
he  plunged  into  excesses.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other 
way  out.  The  Christian  world  refused  him.  He  no 
longer  belonged  to  his  own  people.  Their  poverty  dis- 
gusted him.  People  had  no  right  to  be  so  poor  as  that, 
to  have  no  relief  from  the  joyless  daily  grind  for  bread. 
...  It  was  the  fault  of  the  Christians  who  prayed  to 
the  Lord  for  their  daily  bread  and  stole  it  from  each 
other  because  they  had  forgotten  that  it  was  not  given 
them  except  in  return  for  daily  work. 

That  was  the  one  strand  of  sympathy  he  had  left  with 
his  father— Jacob's  absolute  refusal  to  receive  his  daily 
bread  from  any  other  hands  than  his  own,  and  his  almost 
crazy  refusal  to  let  Issy  and  Harry  go  out  and  work 


406  MENDEL 


for  other  masters.  They  could  work  for  their  father 
because  he  had  authority  over  them,  but  other  masters 
had  no  authority  except  what  they  bought  or  stole. 

But  a  talk  with  Harry  decided  Mendel  that  his  peo- 
ple's way,  the  Jewish  way,  was  no  longer  his. 

Harry  was  bored.  He  had  bouts  of  boredom  when  he 
could  not  endure  the  workshop  and  refused  to  go  near 
it,  however  great  the  pressure  of  business  might  be. 
Like  his  father,  he  said: — 

"I  want  nothing." 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Mendel;  "you've  got  nothing. 
What  are  you  grumbling  at?" 

"But  there  is  nothing." 

"Then  it  is  easy  to  want  nothing  and  you  should  be 
satisfied." 

"That's  it.  It  is  too  easy.  Work,  work,  work.  Play, 
play,  play.  How  disgusting  it  all  is!" 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  in  Paris?" 

"I  could  not  bear  to  be  away  from  the  people." 

"But  if  they  give  you  nothing?" 

/  "They  have  nothing  to  give.  Nothing  but  old  Jews 
who  believe  and  young  Jews  who  cannot  believe  and 
are  nothing." 

"It  is  the  same  everywhere.  The  Christians  .do  not 
believe  either." 

"But  they  are  fools  and  can  make  themselves  happy 
with  their  cinemas  and  their  newspapers  and  their  for- 
ward women." 

"I  thought  you  liked  women,  Harry." 

"I  don't  like  women  who  like  me.  ...  I  don't  want 
to  marry,  I  don't  want  anything.  I  shall  see  the  old 
people  into  their  graves,  and  then  I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  do.  You  are  the  only  one  I  know  who  has  anything 
to  live  for  or  any  life  in  him." 


OLIVER 


407 


"I  have  little  enough." 

"Oh  God !  don't  you  start  talking  like  me,  or  we  shall 
all  go  to  the  cemetery  at  once." 

"All  right,  Harry.  I'll  keep  you  going.  I'll  keep  you 
astonished." 

His  brother's  despondency  helped  Mendel  on  a  little, 
but  what  a  mean  incentive  to  work,  to  astonish  his  poor 
ignorant  family! 

Very  soon  there  came  a  terrible  day  when  he  had  to 
tell  them  that  he  had  not  a  penny  in  the  world  and  that 
he  was  a  failure.  It  would  have  gone  hardly  with  him 
but  for  Harry,  who  espoused  his  cause,  saying  dramati- 
cally that  he  believed  in  his  young  brother  as  he  be- 
lieved in  God,  and  that  Mendel  should  not  be  stopped 
for  want  of  money.  And  he  went  upstairs  and  came 
down  with  his  savings,  nearly  thirty  pounds. 

"Don't  be  a  fool !"  said  Jacob.  "He  will  only  spend  it 
on  drink  and  women." 

"He  is  a  genius,"  said  Harry  simply,  and  Issy,  fired  by 
his  brother's  example,  said  he  had  saved  ten  pounds 
and  he  would  add  that.  Together  they  shouted  Jacob 
down  when  he  tried  to  raise  his  voice,  until  at  last  he 
produced  his  cash-box  and  gave  Mendel  a  ten-pound 
note,  saying: — • 

"If  the  Christians  are  liars  when  they  say  they  believe 
in  you,  we  are  not.  You  must  learn  that  the  Christians 
are  all  liars  and  you  must  show  them  that  you  are  the 
greatest  artist  in  the  world." 

"I'll  show  them,"  mumbled  Mendel.  "Yes,  I'll  show 
them." 

He  returned  to  his  work  with  a  better  determination 
to  succeed,  but  he  felt  more  barren  than  ever,  and  had 
nothing  to  work  with  but  his  will.  Into  that  he  gath- 


4o8  MENDEL 


ered  all  his  force  and  determined  to  go  back  and  pick 
up  the  thread  of  his  work  at  the  point  where  Logan 
had  broken  into  the  weaving  of  it.  He  would  paint  yet 
another  portrait  of  his  mother,  and  then  he  would  choose 
a  subject  from  among  the  life  of  the  Jews.  He  would 
start  again.  The  Jews  believed  in  him;  he  would  glorify 
them,  although  he  no  longer  believed  in  but  only  admired 
them.  When  he  came  to  look  at  them  clearly,  they  were 
squat  and  stunted,  because  he  could  only  look  at  them 
from  a  superior  height.  .  .  .  He  turned  over  his  early 
work,  and  studied  it  carefully,  but  he  could  not  recover 
his  childish  acceptance  of  that  existence. 

For  some  weeks  he  did  not  go  near  Morrison  and  fre- 
quented the  Paris  Cafe,  where  he  felt  hopelessly  out 
of  it.  No  one  spoke  to  him.  Hardly  a  soul  nodded 
to  him.  Night  after  night  he  sat  there  despondently, 
conjuring  up  the  exciting  evenings  he  had  spent  there. 
They  were  like  ashes  in  his  mouth. 

One  night,  to  his  amazement  and  almost  fear,  some 
one  slipped  into  the  seat  at  his  side.  It  was  Oliver.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  knee  and  said : — 

"You  look  pretty  bad,  Kiihler.    Anything  wrong?" 

"Much  as  usual.    How  are  you?    What'll  you  drink ?" 

"Kummel's  mine,"  she  said. 

He  ordered  two  Kummels. 

"I'm  all  right.     How  are  you?" 

"I've  told  you  how  I  am,"  he  said  testily. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  she  said,  "I  haven't  been  here 
for  a  long  time.  I  wish  you'd  come  and  see  me,  Kiihler. 
We  never  did  get  on,  but  I'd  like  to  have  a  talk  about 
old  times." 

"Old  times!"  he  said.     "It  seems  only  yesterday." 

"It's  nearly  a  year  since  I  saw  you.    Logan  came  back, 


OLIVER  409 

you  know.  Mr.  Tysoe  was  so  good.  He  kept  on  the 
house  for  me.  Wasn't  it  good  of  him?" 

The  waiter  brought  the  Kiimmel.  She  drank  hers  off 
at  a  gulp,  and  said : — 

"It  is  like  old  times  to  see  you,  Kuhler.    I  am  glad." 

"Go  on  about  Logan." 

"He  went  back  to  that  Camden  Town  place,  you  know, 
and  we  didn't  see  each  other  for  nearly  two  months.  It 
was  awful.  I  couldn't  sleep  at  nights,  and  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  be  able  to  sleep.  He  never  slept,  you  know, 
when  we  had  had  one  of  our  hells  and  I  wouldn't  speak 
to  him.  He!  he!"  she  gasped  and  giggled  nervously  at 
the  memory. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mendel.  He  was  icy  cold.  All  the 
strange  oppression  that  was  brooding  in  his  life  seemed 
to  gather  into  a  thick  snowy  cloud  about  his  head  and 
to  fit  it  like  a  cap  of  ice.  "Go  on." 

"Mr.  Tysoe  gave  me  money.  Wasn't  it  good  of  him? 
He  used  to  see  Logan.  Not  very  often — 'just  occasion- 
ally. Logan  was  painting  a  wonderful  portrait  of  me, 
in  my  green  dress  and  the  corals  he  gave  me  .  .  .  See: 
I  always  wear  them,  even  now." 

She  thrust  her  hand  into  her  bosom  and  produced 
the  string  of  corals. 

"I  lived  all  alone  and  refused  to  see  any  one.  I  got 
so  thin,  all  my  skirts  had  to  be  taken  in.  I  knew  Logan 
was  jealous,  so  I  didn't  see  any  one,  and  when  I  heard 
about  the  portrait  I  knew  he  would  come  back.  So  I  used 
to  wear  the  green  dress  every  evening  and  wait  for  him 
till  twelve,  one,  two,  three  in  the  morning,  all  alone,  in 
that  little  cottage  on  the  Heath.  .  .  .  My,  I  was  tired, 
I  can  tell  you.  But  I  never  was  one  for  getting  up  in 
the  morning.  ...  At  last,  one  night,  he  came.  He 
walked  in  quite  quietly,  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 


410  MENDEL 


He  had  brought  the  picture  with  him.  My  word,  it  is  good. 
You'd  love  it.  He  had  offers  for  it,  but  he  wouldn't  sell 
it.  He  said  a  funny  thing  about  it.  He  said :  'It's  litera- 
ture. It  isn't  art.'  So  he  wouldn't  sell  it.  ...  We  had 
a  glorious  time — a  glorious  time!  It  was  better  even 
than  the  beginning." 

She  stopped  to  linger  over  the  memory,  and  she  drew 
her  hand  caressingly  along  her  thigh. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mendel,  to  break  in  upon  her  heavy 
silence. 

"He  had  plenty  of  money.  He  sold  everything  he  did. 
There  were  one  or  two  society  ladies,  the  cats!  Com- 
mon property,  I  call  them." 

"So  it  broke  down  again,"  said  Mendel. 

"Yes.  He  got You  know  what  he  could  be  like. 

Sometimes  I  thought  he  was  going  off  his  head,  and  I 
often  wonder  if  he  wasn't  a  bit  touched.  ...  I  haven't 
seen  him  since.  I  wondered  if  you  had  seen  him." 

"No.  I  haven't  seen  him.  He  doesn't  come  back  to 
me." 

"Mr.  Tysoe  hasn't  seen  him.  Cluny  has  some  of  his 
things,  but  won't  say  a  word.  I  think  he  must  have 
left  London." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Mendel  wearily,  suddenly 
losing  all  interest.  "I  should  think  so." 

"I've  left  Hampstead.  I'm  living  over  the  Pot-au- 
Feu.  I'm  working  as  a  model.  Don't  forget  me,  and 
if  you  hear  of  Logan,  do  let  me  know,  and  come  and 
have  a  talk  over  old  times." 

She  had  caught  sight  of  an  acquaintance  smiling  at 
her  and  went  over  to  him,  for  all  the  world,  as  Mendel 
thought,  like  a  fly-by-night. 

He  half  ran,  half  staggered  out  of  the  place,  saying1 
to  himself: — 


OLIVER  411 

"I  must  see  Morrison.    I  must  see  her  at  once." 

He  tried  to  see  her  next  day,  but  Clowes  told  him  she 
had  gone  to  the  country. 

"I  insisted  on  her  going,  she  was  looking  so  pale.  You 
know  when  she  feels  lonely  she  won't  eat.  When  she 
is  miserable  she  gets  so  shy  that  she  can't  even  go  into 
a  shop.  ...  I  have  taken  a  cottage  in  the  country,  just 
outside  London.  Two  rooms,  two  shillings  a  week. 
Isn't  it  cheap  ?  So  I  packed  her  off  there  two  days  ago." 

"When  will  she  be  back?" 

"I  don't  know.  When  she  is  tired  of  being  alone. 
She  said  she  wanted  to  be  alone." 

"I  want  to  see  her.  It  is  very  important  for  me  to 
see  her." 

"I  won't  have  you  making  her  ill,"  said  Clowes. 

"I  must  see  her.  Will  you  give  me  her  address,  so 
that  I  can  write  to  her?" 

Clowes  gave  him  the  address,  and  he  wrote  saying 
that  life  was  intolerable  without  her. 

Morrison  did  not  need  his  letter,  and,  indeed,  it  only 
reached  the  cottage  after  she  had  left.  She  knew  he 
needed  her.  Never  for  an  instant  was  his  image  absent 
from  her  mind,  and  at  night,  when  she  lay  awake,  she 
could  have  sworn  she  heard  a  moaning  cry  from  him. 
No  wind  ever  made  a  sound  like  that. 

There  was  a  pouring  rain  and  a  howling  wind,  but  she 
walked  the  four  miles  to  the  station  and  sent  him  a  wire 
telling  him  to  meet  her  at  the  station  in  London.  He 
received  it  just  in  time  and  was  on  the  platform. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Did  you  get  my  letter?" 


412  MENDEL 


"No.    But  I  knew.    What  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  My  work,  I  think.  I  met  Oliver  last 
night.  It  upset  me.  But  I  wanted  you  for  my  work.  It 
is  like  a  knife  stuck  through  my  brain.  I  wanted  to  be 
with  you,  just  to  see  you  and  to  hear  your  voice.  Noth- 
ing else.  That  part  of  me  feels  dead.  .  .  .  Oliver  is  liv- 
ing over  the  Pot-au-Feu,  where  Hetty  Finch  used  to  be. 
I  wonder  what's  become  of  her.  I  expect  she  has  found 
a  millionaire  by  now.  .  .  .  We'll  have  the  evening  to- 
gether. We'll  dine  at  the  Pot-au-Feu.  We  might  meet 
Oliver,  but  I  can't  think  of  any  other  place." 

"We'll  dine  with  Clowes,  if  you  like." 

"No;  I  want  to  go  to  the  Pot-au-Feu." 

"Very  well.  Are  you  very  tired  ?  Your  voice  sounds 
tired." 

"I'll  be  all  right  now  I  am  with  you.  Mr.  Sivwright 
asked  me  to  go  to  the  Merlin's  Cave  to-night.  He  has 
to  shut  it  up.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  go,  but  I  want  to  go, 
if  you  will  come  with  me." 

"It  might  cheer  us  up,  and  you  love  dancing." 

They  both  thought  of  the  night  when  he  had  danced 
with  Jessie  Petrie. 

"I'm  painting  a  picture  of  a  Jewish  market.  I  want 
you  to  see  it." 

"I'm  glad  you've  gone  back.     I'm  sure  it  is  right." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  asked  after  her  work  and 
a  glow  of  happiness  overcame  her. 

"Oh!  I  ...  I'm  doing  a  landscape — just  a  road  run- 
ning up  a  hill  with  some  houses  on  top." 

"Like  Rousseau.    He  was  good  at  roads." 

"Mine's  just  painting.    It  isn't  abstract." 

"You  can't  paint  without  being  abstract,"  he  said  ir- 
ritably. "Even  Academicians  can't  really  imitate,  but 


OLIVER  413 

they  abstract  without  using  their  brains.  You  can't 
really  copy  nature,  so  what's  the  good  of  trying?" 

"You  can  suggest." 

"Then  it's  a  sketch  and  not  a  picture." 

"Perhaps  mine  is  only  a  sketch,"  she  said  rather  for- 
lornly, because  she  had  been  rather  hopeful  of  her 
work. 

They  went  back  to  his  studio,  where  he  showed  her 
his  studies  and  drawings  for  the  new  picture.  She  saw 
that  he  was  working  again  with  his  old  love  of  his  craft. 

They  dined  at  the  Pot-au-Feu,  and  had  it  all  to  them- 
selves because  the  weather  was  so  bad.  There  were 
only  the  goggle-eyed  man  in  the  corner  with  his  green 
evening  paper  and  Madame  Feydeau  and  Gustave,  the 
waiter. 

Over  the  dinner  Mendel  waxed  very  gay  and  gave 
her  a  very  comic  description  of  the  scene  when  he  had 
gone  to  his  family  to  confess  his  failure.  He  had  a 
wonderful  power  of  making  them  comic  without  laughing 
at  them. 

"They  are  wonderful  people,"  he  said.  "They  know 
what  is  sense  and  what  is  nonsense.  If  you  gave  them 
the  biggest  problem  in  the  world  they  would  know  what 
was  true  in  it  and  what  was  false.  They  are  always 
right  about  politics  and  public  men.  But  when  it  comes 
to  art,  they  are  hopeless." 

"But  they  believe  in  you." 

"Because  I  belong  to  them.  They  believe  in  them- 
selves. .  .  .  My  mother  was  quite  sound  about  Logan. 
She  said  it  could  not  go  on.  I  thought  it  was  for  ever. 
I've  been  thinking  about  Logan.  He  could  never  be  him- 
self. He  was  always  wanting  to  be  something — some- 
thing big.  I  thought  he  was  big  for  a  long  time.  But 
he's  just  a  man.  I  don't  think  Cezanne  was  ever  any- 


4H  MENDEL 


thing  but  just  a  man.  It  makes  one  thing,  doesn't  it  ?  All 
these  people  who  are  written  about  as  though  they  were 
something  terrific,  all  trying  to  be  something  more  than 
they  are — just  men.  And  then  a  quiet  little  man  comes 
along  and  he  is  bigger  than  the  lot  of  them,  because  he 
has  never  tried  to  blow  himself  out,  but  has  given  him- 
self room  to  grow." 

She  had  never  known  him  so  gentle  and  tender  and 
wise,  and  if  he  had  wanted  to  love  her  she  would  not 
have  denied  him.  She  trusted  him  so  completely.  And 
he  looked  so  ill  and  tired.  But  he  only  wanted  to  be 
with  her,  and  to  talk  to  her  and  to  hear  her  voice. 

After  dinner  they  went  to  a  cinema  to  fill  in  time,  and 
he  shouted  with  laughter  like  a  boy,  threw  himself  about, 
and  stamped  his  feet  at  the  comic  film.  And  she  laughed 
too,  and  took  his  hand  in  hers  and  held  it  in  her  lap. 

"That  was  good!"  he  said.  "I  think  I  should  like 
to  be  a  cinema  actor.  If  I  get  really  hard  up  I  shall  try 
it.  I  might  be  a  star,  if  I  could  learn  to  wear  my  clothes 
properly  and  could  get  my  hair  to  lie  down  in  a  solid 
shiny  block." 

"I'll  go  with  you.  I'm  sure  I  could  roll  my  eyes 
properly." 

"Come  along,"  he  said. 

It  was  still  raining  hard,  so  they  took  a  taxi  to  the 
Merlin's  Cave,  though  it  was  not  half  a  mile  away. 

Everything  was  the  same,  even  to  the  two  rich  young 
men  who  entered  just  after  them.  They  signed  the  book, 
and  then,  hearing  the  music,  Mendel  seized  Morrison  by 
the  wrist  and  dragged  her  down  the  stairs. 

The  place  was  astonishingly  full.  Nearly  all  the  tables 
were  occupied,  and  they  had  to  take  one  between  the 
orchestra  and  the  door.  Calthrop,  Mitchell,  Weldon,  Jes- 
sie Petrie,  everybody  from  the  Paris  Cafe  was  there. 


OLIVER  415 

Oliver  was  sitting  with  Thompson  and  the  critic.  In 
a  far  corner  Clowes  was  sitting  with  the  young  man  from 
the  Detmold.  There  were  models,  male  and  female,  all 
the  strange  people  who  for  one  reason  or  another  had 
lived  in  or  on  the  Calthrop  tradition.  In  the  middle  of 
the  room  were  two  large  tables  which  Sivwright  had 
packed  with  celebrities — authors,  journalists,  editors, 
actors,  and  music-hall  comedians.  They  were  being  fed 
royally,  as  became  lions,  and  there  were  champagne  bot- 
tles gleaming  on  the  tables.  Tall  young  soldiers  in  mufti 
began  to  arrive  with  chorus-girls  who  had  not  troubled 
to  remove  their  make-up. 

"It's  a  gala!"  said  Mendel. 

Oliver  saw  him,  and  beamed  and  raised  her  glass.  He 
rose  and  bowed  with  mock  solemnity. 

Dancing  had  not  begun.  Apparently  the  lions  were  to 
sing  for  their  supper. 

An  author  read  a  short  play,  which  he  explained  had 
been  suppressed  by  the  censor.  To  Mendel  it  sounded 
very  mild  and  foolish.  It  was  a  tragedy,  but  no  one  was 
moved;  the  audience  much  preferred  the  music-hall  come- 
dian, who  followed  with  a  song  about  a  series  of  mishaps 
to  his  trousers. 

The  same  reedy-voiced  poet  recited  the  same  poem  as 
before,  and  the  same  foolish  girl  sang  the  same  foolish 
song,  and  it  looked  as  though  the  programme  would  never 
end. 

Mendel  was  irritated  and  bored,  and  called  for  cham- 
pagne. 

"Waiter!" 

But  the  waiter  did  not  hear  him. 

"You  don't  want  any  champagne,"  said  Morrison. 

"Waiter!" 

The  door  by  them  opened  and  Logan  slipped  in.    He 


416  MENDEL 


was  almost  a  shadow  of  his  old  self.  The  plump  flesh 
had  gone  from  his  face,  which  was  all  eyes  and  bones. 
He  looked  famished.  His  eyes  swept  round  the  room, 
and,  fastening  on  Oliver,  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of  satis- 
faction. He  was  like  a  starving  man  looking  at  a  nice 
pink  ham  in  a  shop  window.  He  moved  swiftly  towards 
her,  but  stopped  on  seeing  the  men  she  was  with  and 
swerved  to  a  table  a  few  yards  behind  her.  From  where 
Mendel  was  sitting  it  looked  as  though  he  were  peering 
over  her  shoulder,  an  evil,  menacing  face. 

Mendel  shivered,  and  his  eyes  suddenly  felt  dry  and 
hot,  as  though  they  were  being  pushed  out  of  his  face. 
His  throat  went  dry,  and  when  he  tried  to  call  the 
waiter  he  could  make  no  sound.  The  waiter  met  his 
eyes  and  came. 

"Champagne!"  said  Mendel. 

"Very  good,  sir.    One  bottle?" 

"Half-a-bottle,"  said  Morrison. 

"One  bottle,"  roared  Mendel. 

A  young  artist,  who  knew  them  both  slightly,  hearing 
the  order,  came  and  sat  with  them. 

The  dancing  began. 

"Come  and  dance,"  said  Morrison. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  dance.  That  was  Logan  who 
came  in.  He  hasn't  seen  me  yet." 

"Which  is  Logan?"  asked  the  young  artist.  "He's 
done  some  good  things.  Some  one  told  me  the  other  day 
he  had  softening  of  the  brain." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Mendel.  "They  say  that  of  every 
man  who  makes  a  success,  as  though  it  needed  something 
strange  to  account  for  it.  It's  either  softening  of  the 
brain,  or  consumption,  or  three  wives,  or  he  is  killing 
himself  with  drink.  They  talk  as  though  art  itself  were 
some  kind  of  disease." 


OLIVER  417 

Logan  had  seen  Mendel,  and  their  eyes  met.  Mendel 
felt  that  Logan  was  looking  clean  through  him,  looking 
at  him  as  a  ghost  might  look  at  a  man  whom  he  had 
known  in  life,  fondly,  tenderly,  icily  through  him,  with- 
out expecting  him  to  be  aware  of  the  terrible  scrutiny. 
But  Mendel  was  aware  of  it,  and  it  chilled  him  to  the 
marrow.  Logan  gave  no  sign,  but  stared  and  stared, 
and  presently  turned  his  eyes  away  without  a  sign,  with- 
out a  tremor.  It  was  like  turning  away  the  light  of  a 
lantern.  He  turned  his  eyes  from  Mendel  to  Oliver  in 
one  sweep.  No  one  else  but  those  two  seemed  to  exist 
for  him,  and  Mendel  felt  that  he  no  longer  existed.  And 
more  than  ever  Logan  looked  as  if  he  were  peering 
over  Oliver's  shoulder  with  those  staring,  piercing  eyes 
of  his  from  which  the  soul  had  gone  out.  Only  the 
glowing  spark  of  a  fixed  will  was  left  in  them  to  keep 
them  sane  and  human. 

Mendel  began  to  drink.  The  orchestra  behind  him  sent 
the  rhythm  of  a  waltz  thumping  through  him.  But  it 
went  heavily,  without  music  or  tune.  One — two — three. 
It  was  like  having  molten  lead  poured  on  the  nape  of  his 
neck,  threatening  to  jerk  his  head  off  his  spine.  From 
where  he  sat  he  could  not  see  the  dancing-floor,  except 
reflected  in  a  mirror  opposite  him.  ...  Oh!  it  was  a 
gay  sight  and  a  silly!  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
He  could  see  nothing  but  Oliver  with  the  grim,  haggard 
face  looking  over  her  shoulder.  He  gulped  down  a 
glass  of  wine.  That  was  better.  It  made  things  bear- 
able. He  poured  out  another  glass  of  wine. 

"I  think  there  is  more  in  the  Futurists  than  the  Cub- 
ists," said  the  young  artist. 

"In  art,"  said  Mendel,  turning  on  him  savagely,  "there 
is  neither  past  nor  present  nor  future;  there  is  only  eter- 
nity. You  try  to  make  a  group  out  of  that,  and  see 


418  MENDEL 

how  you  will  get  on.  You  can  put  that  at  the  head  of 
your  manifesto  and  your  group  would  melt  away  under 
it  like  the  fat  on  a  basted  pigeon." 

He  put  out  his  hand  for  his  glass,  but  Morrison  had 
taken  it  and  was  drinking. 

"You'll  make  yourself  drunk,"  he  said,  taking  it  from 
her  gently. 

"I  finished  it  all,"  she  said,  with  an  unhappy  smile. 
"I  didn't  want  you  to  drink  it,  and  you  looked  so  tragic 
I  knew  it  would  be  bad  for  you." 

The  young  artist  crept  away.  Mendel  took  Morrison's 
hand  and  gripped  it. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  with  me,"  he  said.  "Look  at 
Logan!" 

Never  taking  his  eyes  off  Oliver,  Logan  had  begun 
to  move  towards  her  with  his  hand  in  his  breast  pocket. 
He  had  nearly  reached  her  with  his  eyes  glowing  almost 
yellow  under  the  electric  light,  when  he  changed  his  mind, 
swung  round,  and  went  to  another  table  and  sat  with 
his  head  down,  biting  his  nails. 

The  dancing  was  fast  and  furious,  and  this  time  it  was 
the  flute  which  played  an  obbligato,  thin,  fantastic,  and 
comic,  real  silvery  fun,  like  a  trickle  of  water  down  a 
crag  into  a  pool  in  sunshine. 

Thompson  went  to  the  dancing-floor  with  a  girl  in 
fancy  dress — a  columbine's  costume.  That  seemed  to 
relieve  Logan,  who  jumped  to  his  feet,  walked  quickly 
round  to  Oliver,  bent  over  her,  and  spoke  to  her.  Her 
face  wore  an  expression  of  amazed  delight.  Her  eyes 
were  drawn  to  his,  and  though  she  shrank  under  them, 
she  seemed  to  go  soft  and  flabby:  she  could  not  resist 
them.  There  was  no  menace  in  Logan  now,  only  an 
attitude  of  fixed  mastery,  an  air  of  taking  possession  of 


OLIVER 


419 


her  once  and  for  all,  of  knowing  that  at  last  he  would 
get  the  longed-for  satisfaction. 

They  spoke  together  for  a  little  longer,  then  she  rose 
and  put  her  hand  up  and  caressed  his  cheek  and  neck 
as  though  it  hurt  her  to  see  them  so  thin — as  though, 
indeed,  she  refused  to  believe  what  her  eyes  told  her. 

They  walked  past  Mendel  and  Morrison  without  see- 
ing them.  Mendel  gripped  Morrison's  hand  until  she 
felt  that  the  blood  must  gush  out  of  her  nails.  Logan 
opened  the  swing-door  for  Oliver,  devouring  her  with 
his  burning  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  desperate  set 
purpose  of  which  he  seemed  to  be  almost  weary.  So 
frail  he  looked,  as  if  but  a  little  more  and  he  would  loose 
his  hold  even  on  that  to  which  he  clung.  And  Oliver 
smiled  at  him  with  a  malicious  promise  in  her  eyes  that 
he  should  have  his  will,  that  his  hold  should  be  loosened 
and  his  weariness  come  to  an  end.  Clearly  she  knew  that 
he  had  no  thought  outside  herself. 

And  outside  the  two  of  them  Mendel  had  no  thought. 
His  mind  became  as  a  tunnel  down  which  they  were  mov- 
ing, and  soon  they  were  lost  to  his  sight  and  he  was  left 
to  wait.  There  his  thoughts  stopped,  while  he  waited. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LOGAN    MAKES   AN    END 


ALL  night  long  he  paced  up  and  down  his  studio. 
His  thoughts  would  not  move,  but  went  over  and 
over  the  scene  in  the  Cave,  and  probed  vainly  in  the 
darkness  for  the  next  move.  When  he  heard  footsteps 
in  the  street  he  hung  out  of  the  window,  making  sure 
that  it  must  be  Logan  come  for  him.  But  no  one  stopped 
.at  the  door,  and  soon  within  himself  and  without  was 
complete  silence,  save  for  his  footsteps  on  the  floor  and 
the  matches  he  struck  to  light  cigarette  after  cigarette, 
though  he  could  not  keep  one  of  them  alight. 

His  imagination  rejected  the  facts  and  refused  to  work 
on  them.  The  scene  in  the  Cave  had  left  an  impression 
upon  his  retina,  like  that  of  the  cinema — just  a  plain 
flat  impression  containing  no  material  for  his  imagina- 
tion. And  yet  he  knew  that  he  was  deeply  engaged  in 
whatever  was  happening. 

With  his  chin  in  his  hands  he  leaned  out  of  his  win- 
dow and  watched  the  dawn  paint  the  eastern  sky  and 
the  day  wipe  out  the  colours.  Doors  were  opened  in 
the  street.  Windows  were  lit  with  the  glow  of  the  fires, 
and  the  day's  activity  had  begun,  but  he  had  no  share 
in  it,  for  he  knew  that  this  day  was  like  no  other.  For 
him  it  was  a  day  lost  in  impenetrable  shadow,  and  he 

420 


LOGAN  MAKES  AN  END  421 

could  not  tell  what  should  take  him  out  of  it.  And  still 
he  expected  Logan  would  come. 

He  heard  Rosa  get  up  and  go  downstairs  and  light 
the  fire  and  bawl  up  to  Issy  to  jump  out  of  his  bed,  filthy 
snoring  sluggard  that  he  was.  He  heard  the  voices  of 
the  children  and  the  baby  yelling.  .  .  .  How  indecent, 
how  abominable  it  was  to  cram  so  many  people  into  one 
small  house! 

At  the  usual  time  he  went  over  to  his  mother's  kitchen 
for  breakfast,  and  gulped  down  his  tea,  but  made  no- 
attempt  to  eat.  Golda  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  but 
said  nothing,  for  she  saw  that  he  was  in  some  deep 
trouble. 

After  breakfast,  as  usual,  he  went  for  his  walk  down 
through  Whitechapel  almost  as  far  as  Bow  Church  and 
back. 

In  his  studio  when  he  returned  he  found  a  policeman, 
who  said : — 

"Mr.  Mendel  Kiihler?" 

"Yes." 

The  policeman  handed  him  a  letter  from  Logan  who 
had  scrawled: — 

"I  believe  in  you  to  the  end." 

To  the  end  ? 

"Is  he  dead  ?"  asked  Mendel. 

"Next  door  to  it,"  said  the  policeman.  "The  woman's 
done  in." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  Pot-au-Feu,  Soho." 

"Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"Workhouse  infirmary.  If  you  want  to  see  him  the 
police  will  raise  no  objection." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mendel. 

He  asked  the  direction  and  set  out  at  once. 


422  MENDEL 


The  workhouse  was  a  dull  grey  mass  of  buildings,  ris- 
ing1 out  of  a  dull  grey  district  like  an  inevitable  creation 
of  its  dullness,  and  it  seemed  an  inevitable  contrast  to 
the  Merlin's  Cave,  so  that  it  was  right  that  Logan  should 
walk  out  of  the  glitter  into  it.  This  was  the  very  con- 
trast that  Mendel's  imagination  had  been  vainly  seeking, 
and  now,  with  the  violence  of  a  sudden  release,  his 
thoughts  began  to  work  again.  .  .  .  Oliver  was  dead. 
That  was  inevitable  too.  But  why? 

Logan  had  surrendered  to  her.  They  would  go  home 
from  the  Merlin's  Cave  to  the  Pot-au-Feu,  to  Hetty 
Finch's  room.  He  would  surrender  to  her  absolutely, 
because  she  had  willed  his  destruction  and  could  not 
see  that  his  destruction  meant  her  own.  She  wanted 
recognition,  acknowledgment  that  her  vitality  was  more 
important  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and  she  had 
brought  Logan  to  it.  There  had  been  a  cold,  set  pur- 
pose in  his  eyes  last  night — an  intellectual  purpose.  The 
equation  was  worked  out.  She  could  have  what  she 
wanted,  at  a  price.  She  could  destroy  the  will  and  the 
desire  of  a  man,  but  not  his  mind,  not  his  spirit,  which 
would  still  be  obedient  to  a  higher  will,  and  that  would 
break  her  as  she  had  broken. 

Very  bare  and  grim  was  the  waiting-room  in  which 
Mendel  had  to  bide  until  the  nurse  came  for  him.  Its 
walls  were  of  a  faded  green,  dim  and  grimy,  and  when 
the  door  was  opened  as  people  went  in  or  out,  there  was 
wafted  in  a  smell  of  antiseptics.  But  as  his  thoughts 
gathered  force  the  room  seemed  to  be  rilled  with  a  great 
light,  which  revealed  beauty  in  the  poor  people  waiting 
patiently  to  see  their  sick.  They  became  detached  and 
pictorial,  but  he  could  not  think  of  them  in  terms  of 
paint.  His  mind  had  begun  to  work  in  a  new  way,  and 
he  felt  more  solid,  more  human,  more  firmly  planted 


LOGAN  MAKES  AN  END 


423 


on  the  ground,  as  though  at  last  he  was  admitted  to  a 
place  in  life.  It  mattered  to  him  no  more  that  he  was 
a  Jew  and  strange  and  foreign  to  the  Christian  world. 
There  were  neither  Jews  nor  Christians  now.  There 
were  only  people — tragic,  wonderful  people.  .  .  .  He 
even  forgot  that  he  was  in  love.  All  his  mind  was  con- 
centrated upon  Logan,  who  was  now  also  tragic  and  won- 
derful, a  source  of  tragedy  and  wonder,  and  his  whole 
effort  was  to  discover  and  to  make  plain  to  himself  his 
share  in  the  tragedy:  not  to  weigh  and  measure  and 
to  wonder  whether  at  one  point  or  another  he  could  have 
stopped  it.  Nothing  could  have  stopped  it. 

There  was  no  room  for  judgment  in  this  tragic  world. 

A  nurse  came  to  fetch  him. 

She  said : — 

"He  is  very  weak,  but  he  will  be  strong  enough  to 
know  you.  Don't  excite  him." 

She  led  him  into  the  bare,  white  ward,  across  which 
the  sun  threw  great  shafts  of  light,  to  Logan's  bedside. 
At  the  head  of  the  bed  a  policeman  was  sitting  with  his 
helmet  on  his  knees,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him. 
He  turned  his  eyes  on  Mendel,  who  thought  he  looked 
a  very  nice  man,  something  amusingly  imperturbable  in 
this  racking  world  of  tragedy. 

He  stood  by  the  bedside  and  looked  down  at  Logan, 
in  whose  face  there  was  at  last  the  noble,  conquering 
expression  at  which,  through  all  his  foolish  striving, 
he  had  always  aimed.  His  brow  was  strong  and  massive, 
his  mouth  relentless  as  Beethoven's,  his  nose  sharp  and 
stubborn,  and  there  was  something  exquisite  and  sensi- 
tive in  the  drawn  skin  about  his  eyes.  From  his  white 
brow  his  shock  of  black  hair  fell  back  on  the  pillow. 

His  hand  was  outside  the  grey  coverlet.  Mendel  took 
it  in  his.  Logan  opened  his  eyes,  and  into  them  came  an 


424  MENDEL 


expression  of  almost  incredulous  surprise,  of  ecstatic,  in- 
tolerable happiness.  He  had  wakened  out  of  his  dream 
into  his  dream,  to  be  with  Mendel,  to  have  gone  through 
the  very  depths  to  be  with  Mendel.  His  hand  closed  tight 
on  his  friend's  and  his  lids  drooped  over  his  eyes. 

He  opened   them  again  after   a   few  moments   and 
said : — 
,     "You!" 

The  nurse  placed  a  chair  for  Mendel,  and  he  sat  down 
and  said : — 

"How  are  you  feeling?" 

"Pretty  weak.  I  dreamed  of  your  coming,  but  I  didn't 
really  believe  it.  ...  I've  done  it,  you  know." 

"Yes." 

"What  are  you  doing  ?" 

"I've  painted  another  portrait  of  my  mother.  A  good 
one,  this  time.  She  is  sitting  in  a  wooden  chair  as  she 
always  sits,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  stomach.  And 
I  am  planning  a  picture  of  a  Jewish  market,  something 
bigger  than  I  have  attempted  yet." 

"I  see.  Good — good.  .  .  .  We  must  work  together. 
We  can  do  it  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Mendel,  rather  mystified.  It  was  very 
strange  to  have  Logan  talking  like  that,  as  though  he  were 
going  back  to  the  first  days  of  their  friendship. 

"It  is  such  peace,"  said  Logan ;  and  indeed  he  looked  as 
if  he  were  at  peace,  lying  there  so  still  and  white,  with 
the  hard  strain  gone  from  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was 
none  of  the  old  roguish  twinkle,  but  an  expression  of  pain 
through  which  there  shone  a  penetrating  and  most  tender 
light. 

"Peace,"  murmured  Logan  again.  "Tell  me  more. 
There  is  only  art." 

"There   is  nothing  else,"   answered   Mendel,   carried 


LOGAN  MAKES  AN  END  425 

away  on  the  impulse  of  Logan's  spirit  and  understanding 
what  he  meant  when  he  said  "we."  Life,  the  turbulent 
life  of  every  day,  the  life  of  desire,  was  broken  and  had 
fallen  away  from  him,  so  that  he  was  living  without 
desire,  only  in  his  enduring  will,  which  had  lost  patience 
with  his  desires  and  had  destroyed  them. 

Through  Mendel  trembled  a  new  and  strange  elation. 
He  recognised  that  his  friendship  with  Logan  was  just 
beginning,  and  that  he  was  absolved  from  all  share  in  the 
catastrophe,  if  such  there  had  been.  And  from  him  too 
the  turbulent  life  of  desire  fell  away,  and  he  could  be  at 
one  with  his  friend.  There  was  no  need  to  talk  of  the 
past — it  was  as  though  it  had  never  been. 

He  described  the  design  he  had  made  for  his  picture: 
two  fat  old  women  bargaining,  and  a  strong  man  carrying 
a  basket  of  fruit  on  his  head. 

"A  good  beginning,"  said  Logan.  "I  ...  I  could 
never  get  going.  I  was  always  overseen  in  my  work." 

"Overseen !"  said  Mendel,  puzzled  by  the  word. 

"Yes.  I  was  always  outside  the  picture,  working  at  it. 
.  .  .  Too  ...  too  much  brains,  too  little  force." 

"I  see,"  said  Mendel,  for  whom  a  cold  finger  had  been 
put  on  one  of  his  own  outstanding  offences  against  art. 
For  a  moment  it  brought  him  to  an  ashamed  silence,  but 
Logan's  words  slipped  so  easily  into  his  understanding 
and  took  up  their  habitation  there,  that  he  was  powerless 
to  resent  or  to  attempt  to  dislodge  them. 

"Overseen,"  Logan  repeated,  with  an  obvious  pleasure 
in  plucking  out  the  weeds  from  their  friendship,  in  the 
fair  promise  of  which  he  found  peace  and  joy.  "That 
was  the  trouble.  It  couldn't  go  on.  ...  City  life,  I 
think.  Too  much  for  us.  Things  too  much  our  own  way. 
.  .  .  Egoism.  .  .  ." 


426  MENDEL 


"I  know  that  I  am  feeling  my  way  towards  something 
and  that  it  is  no  good  forcing  it,"  said  Mendel. 

An  acute  attack  of  pain  seized  Logan,  and  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  with  his  brows 
knit  in  a  kind  of  impatient  boredom  at  having  to  submit 
to  such  a  thing  as  pain. 

"They've  been  very  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "Given  me 
everything  as  if  I  were  really  111." 

He  sank  back  into  pain  again. 

Mendel  looked  across  at  the  policeman  with  a  feeling 
of  irritation  that  he  should  be  there,  a  typical  figure  of  the 
absurd  chaotic  life  which  had  fallen  away,  a  symbol  of 
the  factitious  pretence  of  order  which  could  only  deceive 
a  child. 

"Can't  you  leave  me  alone  with  him  ?"  he  whispered. 

The  policeman  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir." 

"You  mustn't  worry  about  outside  things,"  said  Logan, 
with  an  effort.  "We  are  alone.  .  .  .  Have  you  found  a 
new  friend?" 

"No." 

"You  will.  Better  men  than  I  have  been.  .  .  .  Do  you 
see  that  girl  still  ?" 

"Yes." 

"She  was  the  strongest  of  us." 

"How?" 

Logan  made  no  answer,  and  gave  a  slight  shake  of 
impatience  at  Mendel's  not  understanding  him. 

"Something,"  he  said,  "that  I  never  got  anywhere 
near.  ...  I  ...  I  was  overseen  in  that  too." 

The  blood  drummed  in  Mendel's  temples.  Logan's  cold 
finger  went  probing  into  his  life  too,  and  showed  him 
always  casting  his  own  shadow  over  his  passions.  In 
love  it  was  the  same  as  in  art.  ...  It  was  very  odd  that, 


LOGAN  MAKES  AN  END  427 

with  every  nerve  at  stretch  to  understand  Logan  and 
how  he  had  been  brought  to  smash  the  clotted  passion  of 
his  life,  it  should  only  be  important  to  understand  him- 
self, and  that  he  should  be  able  to  understand  so  coldly, 
so  clearly,  so  easily. 

And  now  the  presence  of  the  policeman  became  a  relief. 
It  was  a  guarantee  that  the  whole  visible  world  would 
not  be  swept  away  by  the  frozen  will  in  Logan,  which 
was  like  a  floe  of  ice  bearing  everything  with  it,  nipping 
at  Mendel's  life,  squeezing  it  up  high  and  dry  and  bear- 
ing it  along.  He  felt  that  if  the  policeman  were  to  go 
away  he  would  be  drawn  down  into  the  doom  that  was 
upon  Logan,  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  even  while 
the  good  sun  came  streaming  in  through  the  tall  windows. 
.  .  .  He  had  lost  all  the  emotional  interest  which  had 
kept  him  awake  through  the  night.  ...  It  had  been  sim- 
ple enough.  There  had  been  himself,  Logan  and  Oliver, 
three  people,  living  in  London  the  gay,  reckless  life  of 
artists  in  London,  a  city  so  huge  that  men  and  women 
could  do  in  it  as  they  pleased.  Oliver  and  he  had  hated 
each  other,  and  Logan  had  had  to  choose  between  them. 
He  had  chosen  wrongly  and  had  put  an  end  to  his  misery 
in  the  only  possible  way. 

Mendel  fought  back  out  of  the  shadow — back  to  the 
policeman,  and  the  sick  men  lying  in  the  rows  of  beds, 
and  the  dead  man  lying  in  the  bed  which  had  just  been 
surrounded  by  a  screen,  and  the  simple,  wonderful  peo- 
ple in  the  waiting-room  downstairs,  and  the  sun  stream- 
ing through  the  windows,  and  the  teeming  life  outside  in 
London — wonderful,  splendid  London,  the  very  heart  of 
the  world.  ...  It  was  well  for  Logan  to  lose  sight  of 
these  things.  He  was  a  dying  man.  But  Mendel  was 
alive,  never  more  alive  than  now,  in  face  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  and  he  would  not  think  the  thoughts  of  a  dying 


428  MENDEL 


man  unless  they  could  be  shaped  in  the  likeness  of  life. 
He  gathered  together  all  his  forces,  summoned  up  every- 
thing that  urged  him  towards  life  and  towards  art,  and 
of  his  own  strong  living  will  plunged  after  Logan,  no 
longer  in  obedience  to  Logan's  frozen  purpose,  but  as  a 
friend  giving  to  his  friend  the  meed  that  was  due  to  him. 

He  took  Logan's  hand  and  pressed  it,  and  chafed  it 
gently  to  make  it  warm,  and  Logan  smiled  at  him,  and 
an  expression  of  anguish  came  into  his  face  as  the 
warmth  of  his  friend  wrapped  him  round,  penetrated  him, 
thawed  and  melted  his  purpose,  with  which  he  had  lived 
for  so  many  empty,  solitary  days  until  it  had  driven  him 
to  make  an  end.  The  coldness  in  his  friend  touched 
Mendel's  heart  and  was  like  a  stab  through  it,  and  he 
felt  soon  a  marvellous  release,  as  if  his  blood  were  flow- 
ing again,  and  it  seemed  that  the  weaknesses  on  which 
Logan  had  laid  his  finger  were  borne  down  with  him  into 
the  shadow. 

Mendel  remembered  Cezanne's  portrait  of  his  wife,  and 
how  he  had  intended  to  tell  Logan  that  it  had  made  him 
feel  like  a  tree  with  the  sap  running  through  it  to  the 
budding  leaves  in  spring. 

He  told  him  now,  and  added : — 

"It  doesn't  matter  that  I  did  not  understand  you  in 
life." 

"No,"  said  Logan.    "Don't  go  away !" 

"I'll  stay,"  replied  Mendel;  "I'll  stay." 

Then  he  was  in  a  horrible  agony  again,  as  the  mar- 
vellous clarity  he  had  just  won  disappeared.  Logan  knew 
what  he  was  doing,  that  he  was  taking  with  him  all  the 
weaknesses  and  vain  follies  which  had  so  nearly  brought 
them  both  to  baseness,  and  Mendel  knew  that  Logan  must 
continue  as  a  powerful  force  in  his  work ;  but  he  crushed 
the  rising  revolt  in  himself,  the  last  despairing  effort  of 


LOGAN  MAKES  AN  END  429 

his  weakness,  and  gave  himself  up  to  feeding  the  ex- 
traordinary delight  it  was  to  the  poor  wretch,  lying  there 
with  his  force  ebbing  away,  to  give  himself  up  to  a  pure 
artistic  purpose  such  as  had  been  denied  him  in  his  tan- 
gled life.  Through  this  artistic  purpose  Logan  could  rise 
above  the  natural  ebbing  process  of  his  vitality,  which 
sucked  away  with  it  the  baseness  and  the  folly  he  had 
brought  into  his  friend's  life.  He  could  rejoice  in  the 
contact  of  their  minds,  the  mingling  of  their  souls,  the 
proud  salute  of  this  meeting  and  farewell.  It  was  nothing 
to  him  that  he  was  dying,  little  enough  that  he  had  lived, 
for  he  knew  that  he  had  never  lived  until  now. 

The  nurse  came  and  said  the  patient  must  rest. 

"Don't  go  away !"  pleaded  Logan. 

"I'll  wait,"  said  Mendel,  patting  his  hand  to  reassure 
him. 

"Half-past  two,"  said  the  nurse  as  she  followed  Mendel 
out.  "What  a  remarkable  man!"  she  added.  "What  a 
tragedy !  I  suppose  the  girl  was  to  blame  too." 

"Blame?"  said  Mendel,  rather  dazed  at  being  brought 
back  to  customary  values.  "Blame?" 

He  went  down  to  the  dingy  waiting-room  and  sat  there 
subdued,  cowering,  exhausted.  He  felt  very  cold  and 
miserable.  It  was  so  terrible  waiting  for  a  thing  that 
had  happened.  The  physical  fact  could  make  no  differ- 
ence. .  .  .  Logan  had  made  an  end,  a  very  complete  and 
thorough  end.  .  .  .  Oh!  the  relief  of  it,  the  relief  of  hav- 
ing Logan  for  his  friend  at  last,  of  having  seen  him  freely 
and  fully  tasting  at  last  his  heart's  desire,  of  being  him- 
self brought  up  to  that  level,  that  pure  contact  with  an- 
other human  being,  for  which  he  had  always  longed.  .  .  . 
That  desire  in  both  of  them  had  been  violated  and  de- 
spoiled, God  knows  how.  Lies  ?  Lust  ?  Profanation  of 


430  MENDEL 


the  holy  spirit  of  art?  ....  What  words  could  describe 
the  evil  that  everywhere  in  life  lay  in  wait  for  the  ad- 
venturous, letting  the  foolish  and  the  timid,  the  faint  of 
heart  and  the  blind  of  soul,  go  by,  and  waiting  for  strong 
men  who  walked  with  purpose  and  a  single  mind  ? 

At  half -past  two  the  nurse  came  to  fetch  him. 

"He  is  very  weak  now,"  she  said. 

Logan's  face  wore  a  noble  gathering  serenity.  He  was 
too  weak  to  talk  much,  and  only  wanted  Mendel  to  hold 
his  hand  and  to  talk  to  him  about  art,  about  pictures 
"they"  were  going  to  paint,  and  about  pictures  they  had 
both  loved :  Cranach,  Diirer,  Uccello,  Giotto,  Blake, 
Cezanne. 

"Good  men,  those,"  said  Logan.    "Good  company." 

"Good,  decent,  quiet  little  men." 

"We  shall  do  good  things." 

His  hand  closed  more  tightly  on  Mendel's,  who  sur- 
rendered himself  to  the  force  of  the  ebb  in  his  friend, 
felt  the  cold,  salt  waves  of  death  close  about  him  and 
drag  him  out,  out  until  Logan  was  lost,  and  with  a  fright- 
ful wrench  all  that  was  dead  in  himself  was  torn  away, 
and  he  was  left  prostrate  upon  the  fringes  of  his  life.  .  .  . 
He  became  conscious  to  find  himself  leaning  over  Logan, 
gazing  at  his  lips,  with  his  own  lips  near  them,  waiting 
for  the  breath  that  would  come  no  more. 

It  was  finished.    Logan  had  made  an  end. 

Turning  away,  Mendel  saw  through  the  window  the 
lovely  grey-blue  sky,  fleecy  with  mauve-grey  clouds 
heaped  up  by  the  driving  wind — beautiful,  beautiful.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   X 

PASSOVER 


f  T  was  many  days  before  Mendel  could  take  up  his  work 
*  again.  His  mind  simply  could  not  express  itself  in 
paint 

His  first  clear  thought  as  he  emerged  from  the  numb- 
ness of  the  crisis  was  for  Morrison,  and  to  her  he  wrote, 
telling  her  what  had  happened,  describing  in  minute  de- 
tail his  experience  in  the  hospital,  and  adding  that  he  was 
without  the  least  wish  to  see  her,  and  would  write  to  her 
if  his  life  ever  became  again  what  it  had  been  before 
Logan's  violent  end. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Logan  had  claimed  him,  that  he 
was  destined  to  go  through  life  with  Logan,  a  dead  man, 
for  sole  companion,  and  always  behind  Logan  was  the 
ominous  and  dreadful  shadow  of  Oliver,  from  whom  he 
had  thought  to  escape  those  many  months  ago. 

His  isolation  was  complete.  It  seemed  that  he  had  not 
a  friend  in  the  world,  and  there  was  not  a  soul  towards 
whom  he  could  move  or  wished  to  move.  He  could  only 
rake  over  the  ashes  of  the  dead  past  and  marvel  that  there 
had  ever  been  a  flame  stirring  in  them.  And  as  he  raked 
them,  he  thrust  into  them  much  that  only  a  short  while 
ago  had  been  living  and  delightful. 

What  had  happened  ?  Youth  could  not  be  gone  while 
he  was  yet  so  young,  but  he  felt  immeasurably  old,  and, 


432  MENDEL 


in  his  worst  condition,  outside  Time,  which  took  shape 
as  a  stream  flowing  past  him,  bearing  with  it  all  his 
dreams,  loves,  aspirations,  hopes,  thoughts.  When  he 
tried  to  cast  himself  into  it,  to  rescue  these  treasured 
possessions,  he  was  clutched  back,  thrown  down,  and  left 
prostrate  with  his  eyes  darkened  and  the  smell  of  death  in 
his  nostrils. 

Sometimes  he  thought  with  terror  that  he  had  plunged 
too  far,  had  given  too  much  to  Logan,  had  committed 
some  obscure  blasphemy,  had  been  perhaps  "overseen" 
even  in  that  moment  when  the  weakness  and  all  that  was 
dead  in  him  had  been  wrenched  away.  And  he  said  to 
himself : — 

"No.  This  is  much  worse  than  death.  It  is  foolish 
to  seek  any  meaning  in  death,  for  death  is  not  the  worst." 

It  was  no  good  turning  to  his  people,  for  he  knew  that 
he  was  cut  off  from  them.  They  were  confined  in  their 
Judaism,  from  which  he  had  broken  free.  That  was  one 
of  the  dead  things  which  had  been  taken  from  him. 

His  mother  could  not  help  him,  because  she  could  not 
endure  his  unhappiness.  The  pain  of  it  was  too  great 
for  her,  and  he  had  to  invent  a  spurious  happiness,  to 
pretend  that  he  was  working  as  usual,  though  with  great 
difficulty,  and  that,  as  usual,  he  was  out  and  about,  see- 
ing his  friends.  And  in  a  way  this  pretence  gave  him 
relief,  though  he  suffered  for  it  afterwards.  He  suf- 
fered so  cruelly  that  he  was  forced  by  it  into  making  an 
effort  to  grope  back  into  life. 

He  was  able  to  take  up  his  work  again,  and  the  exer- 
cise of  his  craft  soothed  him,  though  it  gave  him  no 
escape.  The  conception  of  his  market  picture  was  dead. 
It  was  enclosed  in  Judaism,  from  which  he  was  free.  Yet 
he  had  no  other  conception  in  his  mind,  and  he  knew  that 
any  picture  he  might  paint  must  spring  from  it.  So  he 


PASSOVER  433 


clung  to  the  dead  conception  and  made  studies  and  draw- 
ings for  its  execution. 

Some  of  these  drawings  he  was  able  to  sell  to  Tysoe, 
who  worried  him  by  coming  to  talk  about  Logan  and  was 
nearly  always  ashamed  to  leave  the  studio  without  buy- 
ing. Mendel  was  saved  from  borrowing  of  his  people, 
which  had  become  repugnant  to  him  now  that  he  no 
longer  belonged  to  them. 

It  was  through  Tysoe's  talk  that  he  was  able  to  push 
his  way  through  the  tragedy  of  Logan  and  Oliver  back 
to  life.  Tysoe  insisted  that  the  cause  of  it  was  jealousy, 
but  Mendel  knew  that  Logan  was  beyond  jealousy,  and, 
piecing  the  story  together,  he  saw  how  Oliver  had  set 
herself  to  smash  their  friendship  because  it  fortified  in 
her  lover  what  she  detested,  his  intellect,  which,  because 
she  could  not  satisfy  it,  stood  between  him  and  his  passion 
for  her.  If  any  one  was  responsible  it  was  she,  for  she 
had  tried  to  smash  a  spiritual  thing  and  had  herself  been 
smashed.  .  .  .  And  Mendel  saw  that  had  he  tried  to 
smash  the  relationship  between  Logan  and  Oliver  he  too 
would  have  been  broken,  for  that  also  was  a  spiritual 
thing,  though  an  evil.  And  he  saw  that,  but  for  Mor- 
rison, he  must  have  tried  to  smash  it.  His  obligation  to 
her  had  given  him  the  strength  to  resist,  to  make  his 
escape.  Oliver  had  triumphed,  evil  had  triumphed,  and 
she  and  Logan  were  dead  and  he  had  to  grope  his  way 
back  to  life,  and  if  he  could  not  succeed  in  doing  that, 
then  she  and  evil  would  have  triumphed  indeed,  and  what 
was  left  of  him  would  have  to  follow  the  dead  that  had 
gone  with  Logan. 

He  sought  the  society  of  his  father  and  of  the  old 
Jews,  the  friends  of  the  family,  and  was  left  marvelling 
at  their  indifference  to  good  and  evil.  They  knew  neither 
joy  nor  despair.  They  had  yielded  up  their  will  to  God, 


434  MENDEL 


upon  Whom,  through  fair  weather  and  foul,  their 
thoughts  were  centred.  They  lived  in  a  complete  stag- 
nation which  made  him  shudder.  Their  lives  were  like 
stale  water,  like  unmoved  puddles,  from  which  every  now 
and  then  their  passions  broke  in  bubbles,  broke  vainly, 
in  bubbles.  Nothing  brought  them  any  nearer  to  the  God 
upon  Whom  their  thoughts  were  centred,  and  only  Time 
brought  them  any  nearer  to  the  earth. 

And  yet  Mendel  loved  them  in  their  simple  dignity. 
They  had  a  quality  which  he  had  found  nowhere  in  the 
Christian  world,  where  men  and  women  had  their 
thoughts  centred  on  the  good,  leaving  evil  to  triumph  as 
it  had  triumphed  in  Oliver.  .  .  .  She  had  wanted  good. 
With  all  the  power  of  her  insensate  passion,  her  blind 
sensuality,  she  had  wanted  love,  the  highest  good  she 
could  conceive.  .  .  .  But  these  old  Jews  were  wiser : 
they  wanted  God,  Whom  they  knew  not  how  to  attain. 
Yet  God  was  ever  present  to  them. 

In  Mendel,  too,  this  desire  for  God  became  active  and 
kindled  his  creative  will.  He  plunged  into  his  work  with 
a  frenzy,  but  soon  recognized  that  he  was  committing 
the  old  offence  and  was  "overseen."  .  .  .  Yet  how  shall 
a  man  approach  his  God  if  not  through  art? 

"Something  is  lacking!"  cried  Mendel  desperately. 
"Something  is  lacking!" 

His  imagination  flew  back  to  that  last  sublime  moment 
of  friendship  with  Logan,  but  it  lacked  warmth.  It 
seemed  that  he  could  not  take  it  back  into  life  with  him, 
or  that  until  he  had  established  contact  with  life  its  force 
could  not  be  kindled.  .  .  .  Oh!  for  sweet,  comfortable 
things — flowers,  and  rare  music,  a  white,  gleaming  table- 
cloth, and  good  meats ! 

He  thought,  with  envy,  of  Edward  Tufnell  and  his 
wife  going  along  the  road  on  either  side  smiling  at  each 


PASSOVER  435 


other,  so  happily  smiling.  And  then  he  thought  with  / 
more  satisfaction  of  the  old  Jews.  They  were  the  wiser 
and  the  more  solid.  They  walked  in  the  middle  of  the 
way,  and  good  and  evil  went  on  either  side  and  neither 
could  attain  them.  .  .  .  His  thoughts  swung  between 
those  two  extremes  like  a  pendulum,  and  out  of  the 
momentum  thus  created  grew  a  force  in  his  mind  which 
began  to  find  its  way  towards  the  God  he  was  seeking. 
But  it  was  only  in  his  mind.  His  force,  his  passion,  were 
left  slumbering  in  the  hypnotic  sleep  imposed  on  them  by 
the  tragedy. 

Yet  the  mental  impulse  kept  him  working  in  a  serene 
ecstasy.  He  could  make  the  design  for  his  picture,  and 
simplify  his  figures  into  a  form  in  which  he  knew  there 
was  some  beauty,  or  at  least  that  it  could  hold  beauty  and 
let  no  drop  of  it  escape. 

He  could  return  then  to  his  normal  life,  and  made 
Golda  very  happy  by  joking  with  her  and  spending  many 
evenings  in  her  kitchen. 

"You  should  take  a  holiday,"  she  said.  "You  look 
tired  out." 

"I  will,"  he  said,  "when  the  spring  comes.  I  am  going 
to  be  an  artist,  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  not  mean  carriages 
and  horses  and  the  King  commanding  his  portrait  to  be 
painted." 

He  had  the  very  great  joy  of  beginning  to  understand 
Cezanne's  delight  in  the  intellectual  craft  of  painting  and 
to  see  why  he  had  neglected  the  easier  delights  of  handi- 
craft and  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  eye.  But  the  more 
he  understood,  the  harder  it  became  to  finish  his  picture. 
He  slaved  at  it,  but  there  was  still  no  beauty  in  it. 

He  would  not  surrender.  It  would  have  been  so  easy 
to  slip  back  to  fake  a  pictorial  quality.  He  had  only  to 


436  MENDEL 


go  to  the  National  Gallery  to  come  out  with  his  head 
buzzing  with  ideas  and  impressions.  He  had  only  to  go 
into  the  street  to  have  a  thousand  mental  notes  from 
which  to  give  his  work  a  human  and  dramatic  quality. 

He  stuck  to  it  and  slaved  away  until  he  was  forced 
to  give  in. 

"You  devil !"  he  said,  as  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  picture. 
"You  empty  jug !" 

But  there  was  some  satisfaction  in  it,  unfinished  failure 
as  it  was,  and  he  wanted  Morrison  to  see  it. 

He  wrote  and  asked  her  to  come. 

She  and  Clowes  were  in  the  country,  painting,  and 
they  wired  to  him  to  come  and  stay  with  them  for  a  week. 
Clowes  wrote  to  tell  him  that  she  could  put  him  up  in 
the  farm  of  which  her  cottage  was  a  part. 

With  her  letter  he  went  racing  over  to  see  his  mother. 

"I'm  going  away,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  away  to  the 
country.  The  Christian  girl  has  a  house  in  the  country 
and  I  am  going  to  stay  in  it." 

"You  will  have  fresh  air  and  new  milk  to  make  you 
well  again,"  cried  Golda,  scarcely  able  to  contain  her  joy 
at  seeing  him  once  more  his  happy,  elated,  robustious  self. 
"You  will  be  well  again,  but  you  should  have  done  with 
that  nonsense  about  the  Christian  girl.  A  sparrow  does 
not  mate  with  a  robin,  and  a  cock  robin  is  what  you 
are." 

"Yes.  I'm  a  robin,"  said  Mendel,  and  he  whistled 
blithely,  "Tit-a-weet!  tit-a-weet!  tit-a-weet!  I  shall  go 
on  the  halls  as  a  whistler.  Tit-a-weet !  and  I  shall  make 
three  hundred  pounds  a  week.  Tit-a-weet !  tit-a-weet !" 

Golda  laughed  at  him  till  the  tears  ran,  so  happy  was 
she  to  have  him  come  back  to  her. 

"It  is  not  nonsense  about  the  Christian  girl,"  he  said. 


PASSOVER 


437 


"She  is  going  to  turn  me  into  a  Public  School  gentleman, 
and  I  shall  bring  her  to  see  you,  so  that  you  can  know 
for  yourself  that  it  is  not  nonsense." 

"It  is  not  the  girl  who  is  nonsensical,  but  you." 

"Tit-a-weet!" 

"I  will  bake  her  a  Jewish  bread  and  you  shall  take  it 
to  her.  Yes.  Bring  her  to  me  and  I  will  thank  her  for 
bearing  with  you." 

"Tit-a-weet !  Tit-a-weet !" 

"Cock  robin!" 

His  luggage  consisted  of  a  brown-paper  parcel,  a  paint- 
box and  two  canvases. 

Morrison  met  him  at  the  station.  She  was  glowing 
with  health  and  good  spirits  and  began  to  tease  him  at 
once  about  his  luggage,  of  which  she  insisted  on  taking 
charge. 

"It's  the  loveliest  little  cottage!"  she  said;  "only  two 
rooms.  ...  I  hope  you  don't  mind  walking  along  the 
road.  There  is  another  way  through  the  fields,  but  I 
daren't  try  to  find  it ;  besides,  it  goes  through  the  woods, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  see  any  woods  before  you  have 
been  to  mine.  I  don't  believe  there'll  be  room  for  you  in 
the  cottage.  You'll  have  to  sit  in  the  garden  and  have 
your  meals  handed  out  to  you,  among  the  chickens  and 
the  pigs." 

"Pigs?"  said  Mendel,  "I  want  to  draw  pigs.  Marvel- 
lous animals !" 

"These  are  the  most  marvellous  pigs  that  ever  were." 

So  they  chattered  in  a  growing  glee  as  they  walked 
along  the  winding  road  up  into  the  hills.  They  were 
unwilling  to  let  their  deep  thoughts  emerge  until  they 
had  been  caught  up  in  the  beauty  of  the  place,  the  serene 
lines  of  the  comfortable  folding  hills,  the  farmsteads 


438  MENDEL 


tucked  in  the  hollows,  the  rich  velvet  plough-lands,  the 
blue  masses  of  woods,  the  gorse-grown  common,  and  the 
single  sentinels  the  trees,  and  the  hedges  where  the  birds 
sang  and  twittered,  Tit-a-weet!  tit-a-weet!  .  .  .  And 
over  the  hills  hung  the  wide  sky,  vast  and  open,  with 
great  clouds  that  seemed  to  be  drawn  from  the  edge  of 
the  earth  and  sent  floating  up  and  up  to  show  how  limit- 
less was  the  space  above  the  earth. 

For  the  first  time  Mendel  had  no  sting  of  anger  at  the 
exhilaration  in  the  English  girl,  no  desire  to  pluck  her 
out  from  the  surroundings  of  the  lovely  English  country 
in  which  it  seemed  to  be  her  desire  to  lose  herself.  She 
was  one  with  the  rich  fields  and  the  mighty  trees  and  the 
singing  birds  in  the  hedges,  and  when  his  heart  sang 
Tit-a-weet,  he  knew  it  for  a  comic  Cockney  note.  It  was 
he  who  was  at  fault,  not  she,  and  she  was  the  very  com- 
fort he  had  come  to  seek. 

The  farmer's  wife  received  him  with  a  kindly  pity — 
the  poor,  pale  London  foreigner — and  told  him  he  must 
have  plenty  of  good  plain  country  food,  plenty  of  milk, 
plenty  of  fresh  air. 

"I  do  the  cooking  for  Miss  Clowes,"  she  said,  "and  if 
you'll  excuse  my  saying  so,  the  young  ladies  take  a  deal 
of  tempting." 

Mendel  thought  her  a  wonderful  woman,  his  room  a 
wonderful  room,  the  cottage  a  wonderful  cottage,  and  the 
place  the  finest  in  the  world.  The  air  was  rare  and 
buoyant  and  he  had  never  felt  so  free  and  so  strong.  His 
life  in  London  looked  to  him  like  a  bubble  which  he  could 
break  with  a  touch  or  with  a  puff  of  his  breath.  But 
he  was  reluctant  to  break  it  yet,  for  the  time  had  not 
come. 

The  girls  showed  him  their  work  and  he  praised  it, 
and  began  to  talk  of  his  own  picture.  Clowes  led  him 


PASSOVER 


439 


on  to  explain  what  she  called  the  modern  movement, 
which  she  could  not  pretend  to  understand. 

Conversation  that  first  evening  was  all  between  Qowes 
and  Mendel,  while  Morrison  sat  silent,  curled  up  on  the 
floor  by  the  fire,  gazing  into  it,  sometimes  listening,  some- 
times dreaming,  sometimes  shaking  with  a  happy  dread  as 
she  thought  how  near  she  was  to  her  heart's  desire.  It 
had  been  for  so  long  her  central  thought  that  she  would 
take  him  down  to  the  country  and  get  him  away  from 
the  terrible  pressure  of  London  upon  his  spirit,  so  that 
she  could  see  released  in  him,  perhaps  slowly,  perhaps 
painfully,  what  she  loved — the  vivid,  clear  vitality.  And 
now  she  had  won.  She  had  him  sitting  there  within 
reach,  with  good,  faithful  Clowes,  and  already  she  could 
feel  the  new  glow  of  health  in  him.  Almost  she  could 
detect  a  new  tone  in  his  lovely  rich  voice.  .  .  .  Some- 
times, as  she  gazed  into  the  fire,  her  eyes  were  clouded 
with  tears.  It  seemed  so  incredible  that  she  could  have 
won  against  the  innumerable  enemies,  invisible  and  in- 
tangible, against  whom  action  had  been  impossible,  even 
if  she  had  known  what  to  do. 

She  had  been  happy  enough  with  Clowes  in  this  place, 
but  now  she  could  not  help  a  wickedly  ungrateful  desire 
that  Clowes  should  be  spirited  away. 

Clowes  absented  herself  in  the  day-time,  but  Mendel 
had  very  little  energy,  and  for  the  most  part  of  the  day 
sat  by  the  fire  brooding  over  the  bubble  of  his  London 
life,  which  he  knew  he  must  break  with  a  touch.  Often 
Morrison  sat  with  him,  and  neither  spoke  a  word  for 
hours  together. 

On  the  fifth  day,  when  the  sun  shone  so  that  it  was 
wicked  to  be  indoors,  Morrison  suggested  lunch  in  the 
woods.  Clowes  excused  herself,  but  Mendel  agreed  to 


440  MENDEL 


go  with  her,  and  the  farmer's  wife  packed  them  a  basket 
of  food.  They  set  out  gaily,  over  the  common,  up  the 
rolling  field  green  with  winter  corn,  down  through  the 
jolly  farmyard  full  of  gobbling  turkeys  and  strutting 
guinea-fowl,  under  the  wild  cherry-trees  to  the  woods, 
where  in  a  clearing  they  made  a  fire,  and  Morrison,  de- 
claring that  she  was  a  gipsy,  sang  the  only  song  she  could 
remember,  "God  Save  the  King,"  and  told  his  fortune 
by  his  hand.  He  was  to  meet  a  dark  woman  who  would 
make  a  great  change  in  his  life,  and  money  would  come 
his  way,  but  he  must  beware  of  the  Knave  of  Clubs. 

Entering  into  her  mood,  he  insisted  that  they  must 
act  a  Wild  West  cinema  drama,  and  he  rescued  her  from 
Indians  and  a  Dago  ravisher,  and  in  the  end  claimed  her 
hand  from  a  grateful  father;  and  so  hilarious  did  they 
become  that  the  cinema  drama  turned  into  an  opera,  and 
he  was  Caruso  to  her  Melba.  In  the  end  they  laughed 
until  they  were  exhausted,  and  decided  that  it  was  time 
for  lunch. 

After  they  had  eaten  they  were  silent  for  a  long  time, 
and  at  last,  rather  to  her  surprise,  she  found  herself  be- 
ginning to  explain  to  him  that  this  was  love,  this  the 
heaven  at  which  she  had  been  aiming,  the  full  song 
whereof  they  had  played  the  first  few  notes  as  boy  and 
girl  at  the  picnic  and  again  in  the  dewy  grass  on  the 
Heath.  And  she  told  him  quite  simply  that  she  had  loved 
him  always,  from  the  time  when  they  had  met  on  the 
stairs  at  the  Detmold,  and  even  before  that,  though  she 
could  not  remember  clearly.  And  she  told  him  that 
love  dwelt  in  the  woods  and  the  hedgerows,  in  the  sweet 
air  and  the  song  of  the  birds,  not  only  in  the  spring- 
time but  in  the  harsh  winter  weather  and  in  the  summer 
..heat  of  the  sun. 


PASSOVER  44! 


"Oh,  Mendel,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  wanting  you 
to  know,  but  it  seemed  that  you  would  never  know  while 
you  looked  for  love  in  the  heat  and  the  dust  of  London." 

And  he  as  simply  believed  her.  It  was  lovely  there  in 
the  woods,  among  the  tall  grey-green  pillars  of  the  trees, 
with  the  pale  yellow  sunlight  falling  on  the  emerald  of 
the  moss  and  the  russet  of  the  dead  bracken,  and  the 
brilliant  enamel  of  the  blackberry  leaves.  He  was  over- 
come with  his  exquisite  delight,  and  she,  to  comfort  him, 
held  him  in  her  arms,  her  weary  shaggy  faun,  so  bit- 
terly conscious  of  his  own  ugliness.  She  soothed  him 
and  caressed  him,  and  won  him  over  to  her  own  serene 
joy,  which  passed  from  her  to  him  in  wave  upon  wave  of 
flooding  warmth,  melting  the  last  coldness  in  his  soul, 
healing  the  last  wounds  upon  his  spirit. 

He  roused  himself,  flung  up  his  head,  and  began  to 
whistle : — • 

"Tit-a-weet!" 

And  he  looked  so  comical  that  she  laughed. 

"That  isn't  anything  like  a  bird,"  she  said. 

"It  is.     It  is  very  like  cock  robin." 

To  -their  mutual  amazement  it  seemed  entirely  un- 
necessary to  discuss  the  future  or  the  past,  and  the  pres- 
ent demanded  only  happy  silence.  Here  in  the  enchant- 
ment of  the  woods  was  love,  and  it  was  enough. 

While  they  stayed  in  the  woods  they  hardly  talked 
at  all,  but  as  they  walked  home  he  became  solemn  and 
said,  as  though  it  pained  and  puzzled  him : — 

"We  are  no  longer  young." 

"We  shall  never  be  anything  else,"  she  protested,  for 
she  was  pained  by  the  change  in  his  mood. 

"Youth  passes,"  he  said. 

And  her  exhilaration  died  in  her,  for  she  knew  she 
had  touched  his  obstinacy.  He  saw  her  droop  and  was 


442  MENDEL 


sorry,  and  began  to  whistle  and  to  laugh,  but  she  could 
not  be  revived.  She  had  thought  to  have  secured  him, 
to  have  made  him  safe  with  the  charm  of  love  for  ever, 
but  she  was  sure  now  that  the  hardest  of  all  was  yet  to 
come. 

In  the  evening,  as  they  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  little  white 
room,  Mendel  and  Clowes  talking  and  Morrison  curled 
up  on  the  floor  gazing  into  the  coals,  he  suddenly  ceased 
to  hear  Clowes'  voice,  and  saw  very  clearly  the  bubble 
of  his  life  in  London  before  him — Mr.  Kuit,  Issy,  Hetty 
Finch,  Mitchell,  Logan  and  Oliver — Logan  and  Oliver 
leaving  the  Merlin's  Cave  and  going  out  into  the  street 
and  walking  home  to  the  Pot-au-Feu,  up  the  narrow, 
dark  stairs  to  Hetty  Finch's  room.  .  .  .  He  put  out  his 
hand  to  touch  the  bubble  and  it  broke,  and  with  a  shud- 
dering, gasping  cry  he  heard  Clowes  saying : — 

"On  the  whole  I  don't  think  all  this  modern  stuff  can 
be  good  for  anything  but  decoration." 

And  he  began  to  think  of  his  own  picture,  which  was 
full  of  life.  Wherever  he  picked  up  the  design  he  could 
follow  it  all  round  the  picture,  and  through  and  through 
it,  beyond  it  into  the  mystery  of  art,  and  out  of  it  back 
into  life.  It  was  poised,  a  wonderful,  lovely  created 
thing,  with  a  complete,  unaccountable,  serene  life  of  its 
own.  The  harsh,  gloomy  background  of  London  fell 
away,  and  in  its  place  shone  green  hills  and  a  clear  blue 
sky,  fleecy  with  mauve-grey  clouds.  .  .  . 

Following  the  clouds,  he  came  easily  back  to  life  again, 
to  the  two  girls  sitting  in  this  wonderful  snug  cottage, 
and  he  was  overwhelmed  by  a  feeling  that  he  was  shar- 
ing their  comfortable  happiness  on  false  pretences.  It 
was  not  to  him  the  perfectly  satisfying  wonder  they  so 
obviously  wished  it  to  be  for  him,  and  at  last  he  could 
not  contain  himself,  and  burst  out: — 


PASSOVER  443 


"You  must  not  expect  me  to  be  happy.  I  cannot  be 
happy.  I  will  swing  up  to  it  as  high  as  ever  you  like, 
but  I  must  swing  back  again.  Happiness  is  not  life,  love 
is  not  life,  any  more  than  misery  is  life.  If  I  stay  in 
happiness  I  die  as  surely  as  if  I  stay  in  misery.  I  must 
be  like  a  pendulum.  I  must  swing  to  and  fro  or  the 
clock  will  stop.  ...  I  can't  make  it  clear  to  you,  but 
it  is  so.  What  matters  is  that  the  clock  should  go.  Jews  \ 
understand,  but  they  forget  that  they  are  the  pendulum 
and  they  do  not  live  at  all.  Jews  are  wonderful  peo- 
ple. They  know  that  what  matters  is  the  impulse  of 
the  soul.  It  matters  so  much  to  them  that  they  have  for- 
gotten everything  else.  And  those  who  are  not  Jews 
think  of  everything  else  and  forget  the  impulse  of  the 
soul.  But  I  know  that  when  I  swing  from  happiness 
to  unhappiness,  from  good  to  bad,  from  light  to  dark, 
then  a  force  comes  into  my  soul  and  it  can  move  up  to 
art,  and  beyond  art,  into  that  place  where  it  can  be  free. 
.  .  .  Don't,  please,  misunderstand  me."  He  addressed 
himself  frankly  to  Morrison,  who  dropped  her  head  a 
little  lower.  "In  love  I  can  no  more  be  free  than  I  can 
in  misery.  I  will  swing  as  high  on  one  side  as  I  will 
on  the  other,  and  then  I  can  be  free." 

Morrison  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  her  hair 
fell  over  her  face.  Mendel  got  up,  said  good-night,  and 
went  over  to  the  farm. 

"Well,"  said  Clowes  uneasily,  "I  really  think  he  must 
be  a  genius." 

Morrison  made  no  reply,  and  presently  Clowes  went 
upstairs  to  bed,  leaving  her  with  her  hair  drooping  over 
her  face,  staring  into  the  glowing  fire. 

"I  must  learn  my  lesson,"  said  Morrison  to  herself. 
"I  must  learn  my  lesson." 

She  was  so  little  trained   for  misery,  but  this  was 


444  MENDEL 


misery  enough.  But  she  sat  and  brooded  over  it,  and 
summoned  up  all  her  strength  for  the  supreme  effort  of 
her  will,  not  to  be  broken  and  cast  down  in  the  swing 
back  from  love.  She  had  taught  him  to  surrender  him- 
self to  love;  she  must  learn  to  surrender  herself  to  mis- 
ery, to  swing  as  high  on  one  side  as  on  the  other. 

For  many,  many  hours  she  wrestled  with  herself  and 
broke  down  fear  after  fear,  weakness  after  weakness, 
until  she  was  utterly  exposed  to  the  enemies  of  love 
and  knew  that  she  could  be  with  Mendel  through  every- 
thing. She  took  out  from  her  paint-box  his  letter  de- 
scribing the  scene  in  the  hospital,  which  had  shocked  and 
horrified  her  before,  and  now  read  and  re-read  it  until 
she  had  lived  through  all  the  story  and  could  under- 
stand both  Logan  and  Oliver. 

At  last,  when  she  could  endure  no  more,  relief  came, 
a  new  vision  of  love,  no  longer  lost  in  the  woods  or 
in  any  earthly  beauty,  but  a  clear  light  illuminating  men 
and  women  and  the  earth  upon  which  they  dwell.  And  in 
her  soul,  too,  the  upward  impulse  began  to  thrill,  and 
with  a  sob  of  thankfulness  she  lay  on  her  bed  fully 
clothed  and  went  to  sleep. 

She  was  not  at  all  disturbed  when  Mendel  said  in 
the  morning  that  he  must  go  back  to  London  to  work 
on  his  picture.  It  was  right.  Their  happiness  was  too 
tremulous.  There  was  plenty  of  time  for  them  to  take 
up  their  ordinary  jolly  human  lives,  plenty  of  time  now 
that  they  were  no  longer  young. 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  station,  and  on  the  way 
they  laughed  and  sang,  and  he  whistled  and  talked 
breathlessly  about  his  picture. 

"My  mother  says  a  cock  robin  can  never  mate  with 


PASSOVER  445 


a  sparrow,"  he  said.  "I  promised  I  would  take  you  to 
see  her." 

"I  should  love  to  come,  for  I  love  your  mother." 

"I  would  like  you  to  see  the  Jews  as  they  are,"  he 
said,  "so  simply  serving  God  that  their  souls  have  gone 
to  sleep." 

As  they  stood  on  the  platform  she  said : — 

"Mendel,  I  did  .  .  .  begin  to  understand  last  night, 
and  it  has  made  you  and  your  work  more  important  than 
anything  else  in  my  life." 

He  gripped  her  fiercely  by  the  arm. 

"Come  to  London,  now,"  he  said. 

"Not  now." 

"Soon." 

"Very  soon." 

He  got  into  the  train,  and  as  it  carried  him  off  she 
could  not  bear  him  to  go,  and,  forgetting  all  the  other 
people,  she  ran  as  hard  as  she  could  along  the  platform, 
and  stood  at  its  extremity  until  the  train  disappeared 
round  the  corner  of  the  embankment,  and  even  then  she 
called  after  him: — 

"Mendel!    Mendel!" 


THE  END 


